


Parker

by DanglyBit



Category: Spider-Girl, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Bitches Love Spider-Man, Creampies, Daddy Issues, F/M, Father/Daughter, Incest, Older Man/Younger Woman, Technical Incest, technically not incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanglyBit/pseuds/DanglyBit
Summary: Old Man Parker's got a young girl's attention. But hey, at least she's not his daughter. Technically. Smut. (Spider-Man: Reign) (Peter/Mayday)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You ever read a story where Spider-Man has debauched sex with his technical daughter? No? Well, first time for everything. Incest, age difference, and creampies, and loveydovey if that's your thing. I don't judge.

Everyone had their issues. Peter knew that. He respected it and had enough of his own to know not to judge, not when it took him weeks to be able to sleep better than normal and not dream everything was back to his normal, when he was happier than he'd been.

Maybe that made him stronger. Being what he was now, still standing, still… there. Just an old man, grey in the hair, bitter in the face, nearly scrawnier than he'd been decades before, but still holding on and never giving up. MJ wouldn't have wanted that, would have cheered him on to her last breath, and had. More than anything else though, he knew he was just too stubborn to quit forever.

Unsurprisingly, so was his daughter.

Not  _his_ daughter, but his after a fashion. On a cosmic, space/time-whatever fieldtrip away from where everything was happy and honky-dory, where he was a married man with MJ on his arm, a little girl turned young woman, and a bouncing baby boy. Where he had a weird goatee and a white picket fence house and a few years long stint as a forensics expert instead of… being a florist, along with a more than a few weird shenanigans behind his hung up belt.

And if that wasn't the biggest, "Well fuck you in particular, Peter Parker of universe blah blah, blah blah," he didn't know what was.

But then she, the girl,  _May_ day… Yeah. She'd taken off her mask the second she'd seen him, nearly fell to her knees sobbing at the sight of him. Certainly made him feel like the most handsome man on the planet. 

If she wasn't everything her mother was but more, then Peter was finally becoming senile. Later he joked to himself about not being sure which one was better, looking at her and seeing MJ or not remembering the last few decades if they hadn't been so depressing - annoying and pretty par for the course, just like the old days, but depressing. 

He settled on the first one. She was his daughter. The  _other_ him, not  _his_ daughter. MJ was gone, they never had kids. Mayday though came from a place where things had worked out and he'd finally been able to be happy… At least for a while. Peter knew he shouldn't be jealous, so he ended up being cynical about it.

She had taken after him in the worst ways. Got the powers, and got the curse depending on which day of the week it was and his mental state. And his luck, it seemed. Yeah, she had come from a place where everything was honky-dory, where there was a picket fence and the Parkers were considering getting a family pet. Was being the operative word, because the old Parker Luck had come back with a vengeance, tracked down Happy-Peter and decided to fuck everything up. 

Mayday watched her old man's emaciated corpse get dragged out of her white picket fence house as it burned to the ground… and then she had the luck to happen upon the oldest version of her old man out there. Peter wasn't sure if that was some kind of accomplishment, seeing as how young the other hims tended to die, and they were apparently dying in droves across existence itself. Maybe Death just really hated him _,_ or maybe his luck was so bad that Death took pity on  _him_ in particular and thought living was a mercy.

Whatever the case, he had figured to hash it out, just like always. Lived too long and too poorly to cash-out now. He was too stubborn, and Mayday looked like he had felt for the last couple of decades. Couldn't leave her like that. She wasn't his kid, wasn't his little girl… but he didn't hate himself enough to give the other him, Happy-Peter, a post-mortem middle finger by letting his daughter coast along the shores of survivor's guilt at the junction of "My life is Shit," like he had.

Poor kid really got hit by the Parker Luck. Technically that was his fault, and technically, he had to take responsibility. Do his best to help, even if his best couldn't help. If it didn't it'd be par for the course on his track record, anyway.  
 ****  
(. . . )  
  
It was a little over a month after she'd fallen ass-over-tea-kettle into his neck of the woods, and Peter still didn't have it in him to say 'friendly neighborhood' on any day before hump day. It was springtime, they were having dinner and it would have been… nice, if he lived anywhere sort of presentable.

A one room apartment with a small kitchenette, a rusted stove that'd seen more action than he had, throwback tiles from the sixties with a worn round table on top, and a ratty rug. The walls were bare, the place was Spartan, and the fridge had been just past full enough before Mayday'd got there. She'd caught him on the beginning fringes of a self-improvement campaign and since then, in between walking around egg-shells around her, he'd gone down to the bookstore, picked up a couple of self-help cassettes for himself for the first time since college and put them to good use. Was probably the only one that still used them.

That day in particular he picked up a book from the local bookstore. "How to Get Your Sorry Ass Out of Bed". Chapter 1 was, "Act as if your bed is a coffin in the ocean." Imagery like that piqued his interest. Then he stopped a robbery of that same bookstore.

He had started thinking happy thoughts before all this and miraculously, not long afterward a girl that looked too much like his dead wife and her own mother just about dropped into his lap. Maybe there was something to all that hubbub, so Peter had doubled down on it.

That morning he'd gone out and got some health food for the first time in a while, for once more than enough to keep him moving and to satiate his metabolism. Greens and meats and carbohydrates and all that good stuff, biscuits and potatoes. If he kept it up he'd get some meat and muscle back on his bones.

Even with Mayday there he had more than enough money for the both of them. The flower business had been better than the photog business – when times were crappy, people, chiefly women, liked to pretend they weren't with pretty things, surprise, surprise. He'd just been living on the bare minimum since MJ died.

He ate the food straight away, something about actually eating again getting his old appetite to wake up. His plate was empty in minutes. Mayday took her time, scraping the green beans and picking at the steak. Seeing her like that made him feel bad. Not just because he must have been one hell of a lackluster cook, but because it wasn't too far afield for him to see just how much this must have  _sucked_  for her.

It felt like she'd said less than a hundred words to him since she'd gotten here and he couldn't blame her. She slept on the couch, and so he had bought a new couch for her. She kept to herself in this small place and he would've been the dumbest old fart ever not to hear her crying herself to sleep at night with hushed moans, or to see how she clutched that mask of hers to her when he went to cover her up after she'd gassed herself out. This wasn't easy for either of them, but out of the two of them only he was used to dealing with stuff like it.

He decided to make conversation. Couldn't stop himself, really. "Stopped a robbery today," he said, barely looking past his pair of old man specs at her. Across the table she flinched. He shelved a sigh. 

"Some schmuck tried to turn over my favorite bookstore," he said. It was the only bookstore that was  _just_ a bookstore and not something else that he knew of. "When the kid saw me- damn near crapped himself. Funniest thing I've seen all week," he said, then bit the inside of his cheek. 

He'd never been good at emotional tact. Had more of his father's taciturn nature than Ben's heart, and past that, couldn't bring himself to bow down before the circumstances, even when conversation called for it. Things were crap, yeah, and they'd been full on shit for the past twenty some years, but they'd get better. He wouldn't stop until they did and Mayday… she was a sign that he was right. Just needed to make her see that too. Be a dad, for once. Or the closest thing to it. While he still could.

Mayday picked at her food some more, eating the green beans one by one, scooping up mashed potatoes with them, cutting into the roast beef delicately. She had her mother's hair, except darker, messier, and more tussled. Almost reminded him of himself, but god help his masculine pride if he'd been that much a pretty young thing at her age. When she finished – and the food was still less than half eaten – she swallowed, also delicately, and gave him this small, glassy smile. Perfunctory and offset right down to the look in her eye.

"Wish I could have been there to see it," she said, licking her lips, her word counter going up to some place just south of one-hundred, he thought. They were dried and cracked, and her eyes had bags underneath them. Peter wondered just how many times she'd been asleep when he'd covered her up - just how many times doing that had actually helped, too. "I never got to see… that. You in action like the…" she scooped some more food, "…good old days."

He dodged that sad-flag like a bullet from the 'good old days'. "You're lucky. Watching an old fart like me jump around in a leotard? Don't know how kids spend their time nowadays, but I don't think that's… what's the word… 'fly'."

"Fly?" She actually let out a small laugh. That was good. "…No, you'd be surprised. Kids, we… Do some stupid stuff. You ever hear of twerking?"

He said, shaking his head, "Don't think we have that here."

"Oh." She looked at him, then down, almost embarrassed. "I used to ask… well, he'd never want to, mostly. Never wanted me to, and with his leg gone, said he… couldn't really spin the webs like he used to. Because of the prosthetic."

Peter's eyebrow went up on reflex. "He was missing a leg?" He asked, and Mayday nodded, hesitantly. "In a world with Reed Richards, he was still missing a leg."

She shrugged. It was obvious that her heart was barely there, this part of- whatever this was. "Where… where is your Mr. Richards? …Franklin?"

Peter stared at nothing in particular, but something far away at the same time. "Gone the way of the dodo bird," he said, eyes squinting to the point that he felt like a crotchety old man and looked like one too. "Or the Savage Land. Hear it's prime real estate, nowadays."

"...Do you ever talk with them?" She asked, like she already knew the answer. Peter smiled at that –she was smart. "My- he was really close with them. They were like family- once the whole "You're actually Spider-Man's- you know" thing came out."

Peter shook his head. "They asked me to come along, once. Get away from this place. I said…" he made a noncommittal grunt. "I couldn't."

"Oh."

"Don't think I didn't notice that tone in your voice, though," he smirked, shaking a speared piece of beef at her with his fork. "Franklin Richards, huh? Good kid… at least I remember him being a good kid. Probably a good man now. If he isn't dead."

Mayday frowned. He considered that it might have been a poor choice of words, but when had his choice of words ever been perfect, or even adequate. "You think he might be dead?"

"I dunno. World's nuts," Peter said. "I know that if he is dead, he's running with a crowd of people that come back like weeds." That time he did reconsider his words, but it was too late. He gnashed his bottom lip, seeing the way she squeezed her fork. The metal bent and conformed to the shape of her fingers like paper. "Sorry."

She looked up with that perfunctory smile again. She really was a lot like him. Or her father, he supposed. "No, you're… right, I guess? I mean, you're… still  _here,_ so _,"_  she said with an almost relieved sigh. "And that's so… A-Anyway."

He let her go at her own pace, patiently pushed her along. "Anyways."

"You, the  _other- …Dad_ , he'd tell some crazy stories, sometimes, when I  _begged hard_  enough. We had a joke: How many Jean Greys does it take to fill a coffin?"

Peter knew that one. It was an insensitive, asshole joke, and it was right up his alley. "One. The catch is making sure she stays in it."

Mayday smiled, but then it shrank. "Yeah, that's the one." She pushed her chair back and stood up, gently setting the deformed fork down, just behind the plate where she thought he couldn't see. "Thanks for the food. I'm… gonna hit the hay early, okay?" She walked out the kitchenette without another word, into the dark, cramped space of the living room.

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Sleep tight."

**(. . .)**

After putting his plate up, washing it, putting Mayday's in the fridge as leftovers in case she got hungry, Peter did what he did best: stayed awake at night.

Putting the suit on again reawakened a lot of things; the joy of fighting, being high on his own ability, and his insomnia. MJ wasn't around to lull him to sleep anymore, but seeing as how he could still sew like a champ there'd only been one avenue for him. After he'd pricked his fingers a couple dozen times he'd made himself a new suit. Couldn't rightly hop around in one that'd been in a coffin for years.

The city was loud again, but not like it used to be, not sleepless-in-Seattle loud. No, it was silent-loud, too quiet so you knew that just around the corner something bad might, could and would happen. Gangs were quick to form and all the old classics were out to play without the mayoral administration around. Without that big fish to quell the smaller ones, people were getting stir crazy with their new freedom. Supposed that's what he was for. Just like the good old days.

Knew he couldn't move like he used to – at least not yet, positive thinking - so he didn't try. He improvised, adapted, and instead of being the young punk that could toss an SUV down the street, he played the old man with a weird fetish for spraying people with his sticky stuff. Played it smart and fought fast, something that was easy to when his bones still creaked after getting tenderized by the Josie and the Symbiotic Pussycats that passed winter.

He finished up the night racking up a tally that would have made the younger him's head spin. The younger  _him, but_ not Happy-Peter, though he'd made a bit of a contest between the two of them. Which one was more rusty, the one-legged husband and father of two... or the shut-in geriatric who was chasing down his heyday. Which one of them had more to fight for and which one fought harder for it. It'd be hard to lose to a dead man, but if anyone could do it, he could.

He climbed in through his bedroom window somewhere past three, sweating up a storm. The city was quiet in this area, he made sure of that, and the street lights were busted, so he wasn't worried. There was no one left alive that he needed to protect or worry about - that couldn't do it themselves. His body soaked and burn from hours of an exercise from hell that made him feel nostalgic. Soon he'd be able to look at himself in the mirror and not wonder where all the muscle had gone.

He peeled himself out of the old suit and left it on the floor, planning to wash it, before hopping in the shower. As he made plans for the day the water made the tension and adrenaline from being back in the swing of things suffuse into and bleed out of him. Peter allowed himself to relax, to think... 

Would need to pick up more detergent, laundry duty this coming weekend. Maybe something nice for Mayday, he drew a blank on what. Wanted it to be a surprise, see that rare smile from her. Said a lot, or the obvious, that he didn't know what she'd want aside from the obvious, for her father to not be dead. Peter wasn't dumb enough to think that he qualified for a technicality, not really. He doubted an old man who looked like the Rip-Van-Winkle version of  _her_ old man was good enough to pass as Spider-Man from whichever universe she'd come from.

He decided on picking up some hair-dye. The white in his features had faded the more positive he thought, the further out of the fugue and fog he dragged himself out of, and he was starting to look more his own age, mid-forties instead of mid seventies, but was still tired of looking like someone had sprayed his hair and beard with fake snow.

His thoughts, inevitably, turned back to her. Back to Mayday. Maybe she'd want clothes... The ones she worn here were all she had, and she shouldn't have had to he lent her - boxer shorts and an old Mets t-shirt of his didn't seem to be up to a teen girl's standards, nor should they have been, but Mayday humored him anyway and held onto them. Wore them like they were her own.

In the meantime her clothes were cycled through and washed over, though she never left the apartment. If it was awkward between them now, it would have been a lot worse if he was clueless. She'd sometimes sit in various states of undress on the couch, in front of the old TV, waiting for the laundry to finish. At those times he'd held himself up in his room or make sure to leave. 

Even then he'd somehow always manage to see her like that, almost bare-assed naked and sitting in a pair of panties or boxers on his couch, just long enough to make him realize just how old and out of touch he really was...

Peter's mind turned some place else. "Fuck…" he muttered to himself. The hot water coming down on him, over his head and neck and into the drain. Contradictorily, his cock was coming up, ready like it'd been awakened after sleeping for ten thousand years and now it was finally free. His libido had gone to shit-all after MJ, only rising every once in a while when his balls were too full to accept his own disinterest, but now… now he was thinking of Mayday.

She wasn't her mother- he had no right to and every last  _wrong_  there was. And where MJ had been all long legs and supermodel beauty, her breasts large, so soft, and perfect to suffocate himself in while he pinned her to the wall and she tried to get him to let up, just a little, but he'd be too lost in her to pay attention… Mayday was shorter and slighter, her body toned but with enough tomboyish curve to compliment her. Her breasts as barely hand filling buds, her entire body tight with agility, taut with firm, feminine muscle, and quick and agile like a gymnast instead of a model. 

She was all her own, didn't have her mother's body- not  _MJ's_ body. MJ wasn't her mother, and  _he_ wasn't her father, and Peter corrected himself as quickly as he could. 

Then he thought that maybe he should start thinking the opposite. He knew where this was going, so maybe it'd stop him.

But apparently his reignited sex drive  _liked_  that, going along with that train of thought, picturing her taut, tight body in his mind's eye. He tried to think of any one thing, old things like how MJ had look with a sheen of sweat over her, her ass beaten pink from his hips alone, how she'd writhed like a stuck and fucked pig on his fat prick, giving him this pleading lo _o_ k from over her shoulder as she bit her lip because he was everywhere, his fingers groping her, his mouth claiming her, biting and sucking and leaving nothing untouched. Then everything took a hard left and went outfield. 

It didn't turn into Mayday, thankfully, at least not outright, but it'd be a lie to say that his mind wasn't awash with thoughts of fucking a tight, young girl in a spider-suit into a sweaty mess, grinding against her pert little ass so hard she couldn't breathe, so rough he'd have to to carry her home, so long she couldn't walk, and so good she'd never want to leave.

_Hair_. He tried to think of something else, something non sexual, like hair. That didn't help either. 

The next thing on his mind was how it'd feel between his fingers. MJ's had been long, luscious, perfect to use as like makeshift leash and snag her back when she bounced off his prick too hard, her creamy ass slapping back with every bit back, mewling screech she'd let out when he scooped her out good with the head of his cock. But short hair was different, couldn't hold onto it as well… but it'd be good to grip it and tug, not too hard, definitely not to soft, but just enough to know he was there, holding her. And when she looked at him with those eyes of hers… her toned legs bent at the knee, her pussy dripping in her little panties, her mouth stuffed like a turkey with his full, sagging balls, he'd run his fingers through her hair, and...

Before he knew it, his hands were around his cock. Long and fat, and harder than it'd been in the longest time, balls full and ready to churn a payload and make a moneyshot. He told himself to stop, but was repeatedly surprised for second after second that he was still stroking. He couldn't even think of anything else and the harder he tried, the worse he doubled down.

It was times like this he wished he still remembered Felicia's number, but he wasn't sure he wouldn't be wondering what  _her_ daughter looked like, standing in front of his stove, pert little bubble butt sticking out in a piece of barely-there boyshorts with big, coy eyes. Would they be blue, like her mothers? He wondered if she was a redhead by some miracle. Didn't wonder if he had a problem, because he knew damn well he did. Full balls, a young man's sex drive, a couple of decades of abstinence, and the luck to have the universe decide to drop… a very nice young woman in his lap in the midst of an awful tragedy. 

He wasn't about to do this. Peter turned the water from hot to cold and took the shock to his system with a grimace until his prick went from a soda can thick bitch-breaker to a mostly wilted sleeping sausage. It took a while of him thinking not-so-happy thoughts to clear his mind - fighting, truths and failures, responsibilities, like the symbiote.

During, he got a new idea: find a nice young girl- a nice,  _mature_ _woman_ , one closer to his own age, and let her help him disseminate years of sexual buildup inside her. Fuck her ragged until she had a thing for older men if she didn't already so she'd be begging to move in with him at the old folk's home and feed him tapioca.

He stayed in there until he started to sneeze, barely believing what he'd almost done. The water bill was going to be high this month. 

When he was sure his cock was finally down for the count – neither one of them were happy about it, but he wasn't so lonely that he was about to do that  _–_ not while thinking of Mayday – he wrapped himself up in a towel, too tired and lazy to climb into something else. He his teeth, shaved a bit, and went to bed with blue balls, just like any other night. 

His night would have ended there if he was as old as he thought sometimes. But he wasn't, and the first thing he noticed was that Mayday was in his room, cuddled up on his bed. The rest after that came easy.

His costume was in her hands, so soaked through that the room was heavy with his musk. She had her legs to her chest as she sat on his bed, clad in those little nothing panties and one of his shirts, the barest part of her short red hair lit up by some flickering streetlight outside his apartment that made her smooth, soft legs look golden.

Her thighs tensed and she shook violently, a quivering breath into the crotch of his suit that made it click to his stuck still brain what she was doing. Peter chose to ignore it and say she was just holding the costume, and that her legs happened to clenched tight together, making her look small, innocent, and oh-so cagey. She'd been dealt a shit hand and he needed to keep her safe.

He cleared his throat and she jerked. The wet  _smck!_ of her fingers in someplace he couldn't see causing her to shiver. Her eyes went up and out came a quivering breath. Realization and resignation came to him in equal measure as he forced himself to look her in the eye, but hers, bright and green and just plain pretty, fell from his on down to the crotch of the towel where the slightest movement had his bits dangling. Never before had he been so hyper aware of how going commando felt.

There was a pause. 

Then Mayday swallowed, shifted, and he saw her fingers move from between her legs, her legs moving to show it. Peter's cock twitched and he tightened his jaw. He was  _never_ going to live this down…

His first instinct was to make a joke, like the old days. He'd been the guy to stare up at  _Galactus_ , or the  _Hulk_ , or  _Thor_ , and make a  _joke_. But now the funniest joke he could think of was his luck, and that Mayday had come to his neighborhood, to him, and in more ways than just the one.

"…Did you want me to read you a bedtime story?" he said, clearing his voice, and was attacked on all sides by just how bad that was to say. But that was alright, he was used to hairy situations.

Mayday stuttered, her voice shaking from what she'd been doing. She looked away, but not for long. He thought that playing it off would work, so he did. Like a fight or flight response gone haywire, a deer in the headlights, and he was used to fighting again, so he adjusted his towel as it started to sag as stared down the barrel of one hell of an awkward night.

"I… I'm… sorry," she finally said. Her voice broke, eyes clenched. She swallowed thickly and shook her head. "I shouldn't have come here, should have left, it's just… You remind me of him  _so much."_

Peter supposed that was supposed to be a good thing that he wasn't as bad a father as he thought he was. Then again, real hard to lose to a dead guy. All he could think about was what she'd been doing with her fingers with her nose pressed into the crotch of his suit, and how her hand was still between her legs.

"And I just… miss him. I wish I could have done something, but I look at you and I see him and- I'm happy. I'm  _sad,_ and I-" she looked down, where her knees were knocked and quivering. "I am one  _fucked up kid,_ Daddy _…"_ She said, and his heart stopped for a second.

He'd watched old recordings of himself, of way back when. In the middle of a firefight it looked like he moved with a plan, like a professional, a vector through a maze when the reality was he'd been lost and damn near aimless since he was fifteen. It looked like he had a plan, but he never did. Now it was just like the good old days, except he wasn't a kid anymore. He was a crotchety, lonely, bitter old man with a no-fucks-given card ready and waiting to be used like it was his ace in the hole. And so he laid it bare.

"Yeah, well… join the club," he said, not meaning to sound insensitive, but it came across like that. There weren't that many ways to verbally respond to being physically half aroused to your technical daughter-not-daughter. His cock was coming back with a vengeance as his eyes would glued themselves to her thighs, and he tore his gaze away, tried to will the heat pooling in his core away, hoping she hadn't seen him staring, but knowing he was so far in the rabbit hole the outcome wouldn't change if she did or didn't, and if he wasn't so stubborn.

Apparently she didn't inherit his stubbornness, because she was crotch gazing him like a motherfucker. Or more accurately…

A lightbulb went off in his head then, and he decided to give her a foolproof out. That was the plan, and it was flawless. "I'm… sorry I walked in on you," Peter said gently, with more calmness than he felt. "I'm tired, was out on patrol, and needed a shower." "Thanks… picking up the suit to put it in the wash, I appreciate it… uh, kiddo."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in for her, and in those few seconds he marched forward, careless of his cock swinging like a pendulum. He moved to take the suit away and was close enough that he could see parts of it were pressed between her soft looking thighs, like the mask, then tore his eyes up, up and away to her face, flushed and wet with sweat of her own.

Peter had made enough snap decisions in his time to know when someone else made theirs. Mayday frowned, not resignation, but determination flashing in her eyes, and he was afraid of what she'd decided to do. She shirked away, possessively keeping the suit to her and he almost wished she decided to hop off to the next universe where he wasn't as hard up and screwed in the head as this one.

"I wasn't taking it to the wash," she said defiantly as she looked up at him, wiping her eyes with her dainty, delicate hands. "I was... masturbating with it."

Peter made an about-face, wondering how long he'd have to wait until he became senile enough to forget this conversation. At forty-five going on sixty-nine, hopefully only a couple of years. "Alright, well- you didn't need to do that for my sake," he said, doubling down on willful ignorance. "I'll take the couch. You sleep here tonight."

Mayday leaned forward, completely determined save for the bob of saliva in her throat. Her mouth opened and it was wet like the rest of her, her small tongue glimmering in the flickering, golden light from the street as she licked her pouty lips. "I did it because I wanted to," she said. "Because I felt like it. Because it felt good and made me feel…  _good."_

"I'll do the laundry from now on. There's leftovers in the fridge," Peter said, and turned and started to walk out of the room, but in one quick motion she'd stopped him. Her delicate hand around his veiny wrist held him tight and tugged him back louder than he could hope to ignore.

"Wait," she said, and for some reason he did. Her hand gingerly floated back to her… and then she was climbing out of her panties. One leg, then another, the muscle and fat of her thighs compressing into thick, tantalizing  _meat_ that simmered from the heat coming off of her, and glazed in her sweat _._ "I was fingering myself in these… While I smelled you. They should… go in too."

She held them out to him. Peter looked at them like they were the barrel of a loaded shotgun and knew he was too jaded for this shit. "You just did the laundry. They're probably fine."

Her legs ground against one another. "I was fingering myself pretty hard, Dad."

He made a choking sound, or maybe it was a mini-stroke, seizure, or aneurism. "Well you're at that age," Peter said, feeling the cogs in his brain screeching to a halt. He didn't need to look down to see the state of his cock because it was obvious from the periphery. The towel was tented and enormous, the full breadth of his prick sticking out like a white flag. And like he was waving a white flag, Mayday dropped her panties into his hand, licking her lips. Feeling less defeated than anticipatory, eager for another bout like the stubborn prick he was and wanting to continue... he turned and walked out of the room.

"…Daddy?" Mayday called after him, her voice small and quiet. He didn't answer, and then she called, "Peter?" and then he stopped. "We should spend some more time together. I should… help with the laundry next time."

Peter  shut the door on his way out and beat a quick retreat.

The apartment was too small and too closed in to pace, but he did anyway. With a hard, fat dick and wet panties clutched in one hand.  _This,_ this was Parker Luck. Almost made him wish for a brawl but the feeling in his balls, tickling and churning and waiting to just shoot out of his 'Happy-Peter' made thinking of anything else… hard. So instead, he laid down on the couch and tried to go to sleep. 

 


	2. Complex

The day came earlier than Peter was ready for it. Bleak sunlight in his eyes when he opened them, and the low roar of the morning traffic in his ears. It was Thursday.

On Thursdays he'd stop by the shop, open his doors for a few hours and make sure nothing had been stolen. It had been something to keep the normalcy and routine in from week to week to his old self — and also because he couldn't shut down business permanently. After he put the mask on again, he hadn't wanted to go back to how he'd been before - back when the city and his perceived responsibility to it had been everything over every _one_  else. 

Mayday coming into his friendly neighborhood hadn't changed that, just his perception of it. He was working weekdays to bring home the literal bacon to her now, and he thought there was something funny about that. 

With bits and pieces of sleep underneath his belt – or towel – Peter sat up from the couch and rubbed his eyes. Beneath the towel, his cock was hard again with a vengeance, like it knew it'd been years since he used it and that he'd passed up a chance to use it again. That, him on the couch, and Mayday in his bed, wearing one of his shirts and only that, was one heck of a joke that he didn't feel like laughing at. 

Instead he took a deep breath. Too early to get tunnel vision over it, he decided. Needed to prioritize, move forward even though it hit him with the force and subtlety of a pickup truck going 180 – or a backhand from the Hulk. He'd gotten up from those more times than it was safe to count, so no excuse there. Told himself nothing had changed and that was a lie, but he was going to stick to it like it was the side of a building in the old days.

 Mayday… Apparently she had some issues he never would've pegged her with (and knowing who her old man was, it figured). Issues that made his seem serendipitous if he was the type who didn't care, but unfortunately for his penis, he did. Peter wasn't about to judge her or kick her out for it, but he hadn't taken her in to do… exactly what they'd already done. If there had been a line to cross, swinging his prick in her face while she was her knees and humping his mask like some pent up honeypot was the second-best way to leap over that line.  He wondered if Happy-Peter would come back from the dead and kick his own ass for that.

 But in hindsight, it added up. Mayday wore his clothes and when she didn't, they lay around in a semi mess while she walked around barefoot at best; in her panties and a loose shirt with no bra to speak of at worst, just making it clear to him leaving until she put clothes on was better for the ice they were treading. 

 Made him feel younger, having her around, and that made him feel old, dirty, and that wasn't a bad feeling. The way she'd looked at him, like he was more than he thought he was – someone needed and wanted,  _desired_  – that was a look Peter hadn't seen that look in a long,  _long_  time. It filled him with coiled anticipation like a fight, adrenaline puffing his chest out and thinking of her with her mouth open wide, tongue out while she was on her knees, eager to please… he'd forgotten what that felt like, too. 

 But, nothing had changed. Sure. It was still the two of them in his ratty apartment with Interview with a Vampire Rejects in their rearview – and that was  _his_  fault, technically, that bozos with a hankering for Spider a la Parker were on a multiversal dine-n-dash for anyone lucky enough to get bitten by a spider, or in Mayday's case, unlucky enough to have Peter Parker fuck her mother. 

That meant it was his responsibility to keep her safe. An Electra complex aimed at him wasn't about to change that. Things would still be awkward, with good reason. He was almost glad for it. Him, being a shoddy reminder of Happy-Peter, and Mayday dragging herself off the coastline of survivor's guilt and into Mourningville, with little help from him. It was just the distance they needed away from each other. 

He'd still bring home the bacon. They'd still make bits and pieces of conversation, and he'd still make himself scarce when she started showing skin because if that'd been a sign, he was blind, and it was for the best. Decided it was all sick, sad mix up of emotion for her and desperation for him. Didn’t want to fuck up the one connection he had left that meant something to him, so he doubled down on that, though he couldn't rightly say her method of dealing with loss was any worse than his. His way had him running himself into the ground, or wasting away. At least her way got her an orgasm or two while she huffed a night's worth of his dicksweat with her fingers knuckle-deep. 

 And however he wanted to spin it that  _was_  one hell of a silver lining. 

* * *

He took another shower after waking up, shaking his head when he noticed he was looking at himself in the mirror, more wondering what Mayday saw in him than anything else. Couldn't keep it out of his mind for long when the answer was so obvious, if a little cynical. He was an outlet, the closest thing she had, shoddy substitute or not, and grief did bad things to good people. Mayday didn't deserve that.

Compared himself to who Happy-Peter had been some more, too. Just couldn't help himself. Of course, he hadn’t known the guy, but he could guess and dream.

Sans one leg, Mayday's old man hadn't had the weathered look he did, or the frost in his hair, or the scar tissue from rocking in a symbiotic moshpit for his birthday, or the decrepitly deluxe apartment Peter owned. No, with MJ, Happy-Peter had gotten everything, and still lost it. Sounded about right. 

Peter wasn't jealous. They were the same person up to a point, but the rub was that Peter had a pretty good feeling that Mayday's Daddy Long Leg hadn't wanted to  _fuck_  her. And so he had to wonder what that made him, in addition to a bad reminder. The perverted Uncle, maybe, since it’d fit the lie he told his customers down at the shop – that he closed his doors due to family in town. The brother he'd never been close with had gone and bowed out. That – him having family – had surprised the semi-regulars of his that thought he was a recluse in addition to a widower (and wasn't  _that_  funny), but no one had been more surprised than him. 

After spying himself and grunting at what he saw – salt and chocolate hair and hench muscle acting like bad reminders body – and brushed his teeth, entertaining a list of ways to get in the room with minimal awkwardness. At two options it ended up being a very short list. 

His choice didn’t surprise him in the slightest as he walked out of the bathroom, mostly prepared to look her in the eyes after what he'd done, or what his one-eye had done, and the door opened. Mayday came out looking at him undisgusted, which Peter thought was a bit of a relief, and then wondered pointlessly if she planned coming out like she had.  

Age hadn't done much to his powers if anything, atrophy had, so he could still see just fine despite what his old man specs suggested. Still, he had to question what he saw for his sanity. Her eyes and that shade of green of theirs had a bead on him… and so did her nipples, which smaller than he expected but just as just as perky as he imagined as they poked straight through his suit.  

He briefly noted that it was actually kind of chilly before he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His suit. She was wearing his  _suit._  

The top piece, anyway, as if that was some kind of saving grace. The red and blues hung off her like a curtain, or a gown, leaving the sleeves of it to cascade over her hands. Her shoulders were too slender to fill it out proper, but her breasts were just large and perky enough to stand out from the lean muscle of her body, and her legs short enough that it covered most of her well-formed thighs. There wasn’t much to see like that save for the pure. lightly freckled and almost pale, supple skin of her legs, with the rest of her looking unsure and unsteady in his presence. If she noticed he’d been staring a second too long, she didn’t show it.  

Or maybe her flashing more of her creamy thighs to him  _was_  her noticing – Peter didn’t want to know, so focused on how she at least looked like she'd slept well. That was good. He tried not to think of why she had, exactly, but had to admit Mayday knew how to get his attention  _and_  make one hell of an entrance. Wondered if that was him or MJ in her, but knew it was all him in her, and swallowed.  

They were able to hear the sweat from the shower-heat roll off of him and hit the floor. Mayday blinked, but the determined look in her eyes from before was gone, and Peter was glad for it. "Good… Good morning," she said, and he supposed this was what conversation would be like between them from now on. He could and would deal.

"Hey, kiddo. You look like you slept well." 

“Thanks… P-“ She almost started to say his name, and then stopped herself, probably because it was uncomfortable for her to say. Peter couldn't really blame her. "I did,” she said, boldly. “You… don't." 

"Rarely ever do,” he grunted, “You get used to it." 

 He put on a face to keep her away, as if that’d help, and brushed past her, moving into the bedroom. Mayday moved just barely enough that he could feel her when they collided, and he pretended that the soft swell of her tits didn't brush against his arms, her little nipples flicking against his elbow. That made him feel wrong too, but he liked it and knew he did.

 The lower half of his suit was on the bed, his mask on one of the pillows. She'd used them as a sleep-aid after a masturbatory aid, which made him pause. For Ben, he'd used an old family photo to get to sleep for the first few weeks after, but had skipped the latter entirely since his type had always been 120-odd pound teenaged girls that he could lift with one hand, apparently. Peter made no assumptions of knowing the heart of a young girl, but supposed it was good he had a certain amount of marginal utility left in him. 

 Planned on getting dressed and getting out quick. It was only now that being almost naked in the same room with his almost naked not-daughter tickled the hair on the back of his neck, so he snatched up a shirt and some pants out of the small closet and made a beeline for the bathroom. 

 Mayday got in his way. He didn't stop until they were almost chest to chest, looking down at her. Hadn't noticed until now how small she was compared to him, especially in his suit. He looked her over again and should have felt like a scumbag for it, but didn't and Mayday straightened, watching him like she wanted him to look. Still looking almost-nervous and as unsure as he felt, but not enough to make her back down. 

 Peter almost felt proud, then kicked that out of his head, and kicked himself. Mayday looked like she wanted to talk, but as averse as he was to pretending that he hadn't damn near cock-slapped her in her pretty little face talking wasn't on his mind.

 "What,” he said. "Did you want a hug?" Kicked himself again for that and bit his cheek for good measure. 

 "…That'd be nice, yeah. I could use one of those right about now," she said, frowning up at him, her big, green eyes looking sad, and… Peter took a step back and looked anywhere else, not trusting his propensity for saying no to her. 

 He'd avoided physical contact with her when he could help it for a reason – because he thought it'd hurt more than help. With that in mind he didn't say the first thing to come to mind, because that was, "Doubt your father would approve." Instead, Peter said the sixth thing, just to get her to move out of his way. That it'd be an asshole thing to say was a forgone conclusion.

 "Aren't you a little too old for pajamas?" he asked, distinctly aware that she'd slept bare, and that her panties were sitting atop a pair of his boxers in the hamper inside the bathroom.

 In the second she opened her mouth to speak, he moved past her. And then she moved in front of him. His suit swayed – could almost see her cleavage – what cleavage she had looking plump and squeezable and suckable. Didn't doubt it'd be enough to get him jerking in the shower again so he looked away, chastising himself for all the good it did him.

 Mayday crossed her arms. Had that look in her eye again, the one of snap-decisions and a game-face that would have put his when he was her age to shame. "I'm… old enough for a lot of things," she said leadingly, standing so straight to the point that she was almost on her toes. He picked her up like a paperweight put her to the side of the door, then walked back in and shut it in her face.

 "Yeah, well," he said from the safety of his bedroom as he started putting on his shirt, "Not old enough for me. Among other things."

She through it almost immediately, marching in with a purpose that just hadn't been there for the past month. He almost half-wished they could go back before she could barely speak to him. "Really? Because that," she started, a little heatedly, and then trailed off, apparently having gotten his timing, too.

 She'd barged in when he was taking the towel off and stared. His prick was swinging between his legs, low and heavy from the hot shower, and Mayday bit her lip. She swallowed. "Tha… That wasn't the impression I got," she said, and going all in with his no-fucks-given, Peter let her watch him get dressed, foregoing the pants entirely.

 "Funny thing about impressions," he said, throwing on his shirt and pulling the towel back up. Mayday watched him as he did it, making him too aware of how long it'd been since a woman had last run her eyes over him like she was, young or not, daughter or not. "They're circumstantial and subject to change."

She crossed her arms. "So, what? You being…  _hard_ for me was a coincidence?"

 "Who said I was-" Peter twitched. "…Yeah. Because I was jerking off in the shower. Alright?"

 "To what?" she returned, blinking at him. When he didn't answer, she smiled, taking a step to him. "It's alright, I… I  _liked_  that. I  _wanted_ that,” and he Peter elected to ignore that. 

 "Last night shouldn't have happened," he grunted, and stepped around her and out of the room and into the kitchenette, but she was on his heels.

 "I'm almost eighteen!"

 He swung open the fridge door and started looking for an escape hatch or wormhole on any of the shelves. Didn't have the disposition to actually use them even if they were there, but the thought was nice. "And you're  _almost_  my…" He trailed off. "Look, if that's the  _only_ thing you can come up with-"

 " _Almost,"_ Mayday said quickly. "And… there's  _nothing_  wrong with it!" Peter got out of the fridge to look at her, and she fidgeted, hands falling to her sides. "I-I've thought about it. A  _lot_ , okay? And you're not… and  _I'm_ not… so it's fine."

 Back to the fridge. Peter found the bacon and pulled it out from a spot that was sticky and wet. He ignored the sound it made and tossed it in that sink, letting hot water on it before getting the eggs. "Not fine," he said, neutrally. "Obviously I'm close enough.  _Among other things._ "

 " _What_  other things?" she pressed. "I'm  _old_  enough, so why  _not_?"

 He wheeled on her, scaring her a little. "The fact that you have to ask that just  _screams_  how not fine it is.  _You are in mourning_ , 'Day," he stressed, pointing at her as if she couldn't get it, "Over your father. And I am  _not_  going to do that to you."

 She quieted for a bit… then gently grabbed his hand. Hers made his feel like a sun-dried catcher's mitt. "But you want to," she said, softly.

 Peter swallowed, shut his mouth, and took his hand back before moving onto the dishes and utensils. Took out a bowl and set himself to whisking the eggs. Mayday fell into step with him after only a second and he wondered how often she'd done this with her parents, her father. Wondered that, but knew that while other versions of him were out taking care of her little brother in  _Six-hundred and Sixteen Dads and a Baby_ , a  _Peter Benjamin Parker Presentation,_  he was making breakfast with the daughter he'd never had, trying to explain to her why him fucking her like he used to fuck her mother wasn't a good idea. And he couldn’t even manage that. It was a good thing he’d never become a teacher.

 With the eggs whisked – enough for the both of them, and for him to add more eggs to his mental shopping list – he took out the bacon. Mayday turned on the stove and washed the pan. He thanked her without looking at her, and she stared at him until he did. "What I want doesn't matter, 'Day," he said, taking a breath. "You do. I'm not going to do that to you."

 "Do  _what_?” she asked, her tone too plain for him not to hear the feeling behind it. “ _Fuck_  me?"

 "No. Take advantage of you," he said, taking a breath before he began putting pieces of bacon to the pan. "You… have so much on your plate, 'Day, and I'm not-"

She grabbed his arm and her hands felt small, delicate as she turned him back to face her and when he did, he saw her eyes. Her button nose, pinky, pouty lips, dark freckles, and those watery green eyes of hers. She had a face that'd make any Disney Princess feel like an ugly step-sister… and there was understanding there. If that wasn't the weirdest place to find it, Peter didn't know what was. 

 " _Daddy_ …" she whispered, and grabbed his other work-worn hand. " _I_ want this.  _You_ want this. So why shouldn't we?"

 He swallowed, and she knew he couldn't come up with anything when his last argument was, "I am  _not_ your father, 'Day,” and she kissed him for it. Short, almost acceptable, almost familial, but the way her arms closed up against his chest and how his hands started falling to her hips, almost stopped right there. 

 She pulled away, smiling. Peter knew he wanted to see how her face flushed and how half-lidded her eyes got just before she slept off their fuck. "My father never called me Day," she said, pursing her lips, "So that just makes this easier, Daddy."

 She kissed him again after that, and Peter could have said he wasn't fast enough to move away, not anymore, even though all the signs were there. That he was old and rusty, and with her feet arched and her toes digging into the ground, her neck craned and lips parted, Mayday was everything her parents had been, if not more. Fast like him, if not faster, but always catching him off guard. 

 And that would have all been true. She was full of verve and youth and determination to see this through, even though the only way it would end involved her on his bed, ankles astride her head, a swollen stomach, a river of his cum flowing out of her pink, abused pussy, and a limp for the rest of the week. He'd have to stop himself to keep that from happening, but when she kissed him he kissed back, and when her tongue got in his mouth and moved around like she was flailing for life, he gave her something to flail about. He hadn't even gotten started yet.

 Peter had her up on the sink before he knew it. Knew his common sense would come back and make him stop, if her father didn't before then, so he ran his old mitts all over her smooth, young body. Her supple skin and skinny waist, the curves leading to her hips and how his fingers just sank into the meat of her thighs as he bounced her ass with his hands… all while taking the breath right out of her mouth. Her arms wrapped around his neck and he felt her legs come up to his hips, clumsily – she was ready for it, didn't know how to exactly, but she was ready and so was he. 

 His red and blues on her came up and parted like a dress, and with the only thing keeping them apart being his towel, it was their last bastion before they tumbled over the edge. Neither had their webshooters on, so Peter knew it was going to be a long, long fall.

 The kiss got longer, sloppier, and needier for her, forcible for him. He sucked her lips, she sucked on his tongue, almost salivating in his mouth until her a messy strand of her saliva connected the two of them. She darted back in to lick it up. He nipped her lips for it, and her moans rang in his ears. He raked his teeth on her neck and used every second he had left to taste her, grope her, and  _mark_  her, squeezing her little tits without caring, grinding her body against him while he did, and when they pulled away Mayday offered herself up to him, looking into his eyes with the best smile he'd seen her ever have. 

 Panting, green eyes sparkling, chest heaving – It was almost enough to get him to stop. Almost. Then Peter smelled the smoke.

 His hand had been on her face, tilting her up to look at him while she ground her cunt against his cock through the towel, twitching sporadically to eek out a cum against his prick like it was a stripping pole. The smoke alarm had gone off a second later and it went for seconds until Peter had enough sense to move. Mayday’s legs at his waist stopped him. She had sweat beading across her forehead, hair matted and her heels twitching against the muscles of his ass. By the meek, submissive moan that came from the back of her throat when he pried her legs off and moved away, he supposed she had managed to get off on a hair-trigger – just like her mother – and that was just icing on the cake – recompense for the white flag he'd waved last night that had his prick jerking and prodding insistently against her smouldering twat until he got enough sense to pull away.

 His spider-sense came in foggy and buzzing from the smoke and the alarm – he hadn't heard it, but should have, and went to wrench the alarm off the ceiling with a crunch. The pieces of plastic fell into his hands and he closed his eyes, adding to his already eclectic shopping list. Detergent, hair-dye, and a smoke alarm.

 Breathing out, he looked over his shoulder at Mayday feeling almost ashamed, but seeing her and how she moved. She was taking bacon off the pan and turning the fire all the way down – like a  _good girl_ , he found himself thinking. The type to help her parents and tell them how much she loved them. And with the way his suit was hiked up over the swell of the curve her ass, applebottom and firm where it counted, springy and yielding everywhere it mattered, he couldn’t disagree.  

 Her legs were shaking because of him, all weak and flushed and wet, and he could see a glimpse of her sex as she moved the pan into the sink. Peter felt his common sense come and go and he didn't even say goodbye. He didn't try stopping himself from moving back to her, catching her by surprise. He lifted her up again, planting her butt back on the sink and she let out a noise muffled when he kissed her, but then she kissed back, content to swap spit with his prick damn near drooling precum against her stomach through the towel. Didn't stop even when she was tapping his shoulder for air, and Mayday didn't pull back until he let her, either. 

 "S-So," she stuttered, in between deep, heaving breaths, "…What do you want to do today?" Peter had a couple of ideas. 

 "Well," he swallowed and laughed, feeling… something. He kissed her again from the high of it, gripping her by the crotch, grounding his palm against her little nub and letting her twat steam and drip wastefully into his hand while she let out a rasp that sounded too much like, " _Daddy…"_ for his prick not to twitch. "I do have work today."

 Mayday gripped his shirt. "Then… take the day off _,_ " she whispered. "Don't leave… Please."

 He took a breath and rolled what the words he was about to say in his skull, wondered if he was insane, then said them anyway. "Then I still have to… pick up some condoms. Among  _other_  things."

 She parsed that… and Peter watched as she spread her legs in response. She lifted the hem of the suit, showing off the plump mound of her cunt – she'd shaved, and it radiated heat while she reached out and touched his cock, sifting through the towel to caress the head with a shaking hand. It occurred to Peter that this was wrong… so he stepped closer so she could get a good grip on it. Her fingers couldn't wrap around it the entire way, but she stroked him amateurishly in front of her cunt anyway, legs dangling off the sink.

 She swallowed, then leaned in for another, chaste kiss. "I don't… think we'll need those," she said, looking him in the eye. Peter grunted. That was one hell of an endorsement.

 "'Day…" he swallowed thickly, looking at all of her. She pre-empted him before anything else, trailing kisses along his neck, getting into the motion of coaxing his prick closer and closer to her lips until it was pressing against her clit and.  _"'Day,_ MJ- your  _mother_ - _"_

 "She  _had_  you. I  _lost_  you," Mayday hissed. "I'm not gonna lose you again."

 She dropped to her knees and Peter watched her press her face into his balls, looking up at him to see if she was doing it right even when she was doing it more for her pleasure than his. Rolling her face against his cum-swollen balls, breathing in his musk.

She ran her tongue along the girth of his shaft to the tip, then puzzled over how she would take it all into her mouth, her throat, before jumping over the edge and popping the tip into her mouth, globs of precum and all. A jet of the stuff popped off to the roof of her mouth, making her jump and gag pathetically, looking up at him with an embarrassed but determined look. He raised his hand and she clung to his cock possessively, holding it to her face like he was about to leave her. "Don't… don't stop me, Dad. I want to do this. I  _need_  to do this."

Looking down at her between his legs, Peter sighed, dragged out a chair, and sat down. Mayday took that as license to smuggle what she could back into her mouth. Nope, definitely wouldn't be living this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's not her father, but she'll still call him Daddy.


	3. Complications

Laundry was a bi-weekly thing for them.

Peter's building had a communal laundry area down in the basement. At first they'd gone down together. It hadn't been his idea, just Mayday's insistence that she do something useful while she was around. Within the first week she'd been chomping at the bit to not be a burden - Peter knew what that was like, knew where she'd gotten it from, but didn't comment on it.

And while she wasn't eager to put that suit of hers back on, the one she'd arrived in that smelled like a house fire and bad memories, Peter never pushed it. Even then he figured insisting she become… Spider-Lady again, or whoever she'd been in order to take up Happy-Peter's legacy, was something her father would have slugged him for. Which Peter agreed with. What was so attractive about the job was beyond him, but then he'd been at it since he was fifteen. A twenty year break and he was back again. Maybe she'd gotten that from him too.

Far be it from him to say no to a girl who'd just lost her old man. If she wanted to do some laundry in order to stay busy, to not feel like a freeloader in the presence of a bad imitation of the guy, Peter wasn't going to be the version of himself to stop her. He was the version of himself that went along down with her.

When she spoke at all, then, it was because she didn't know how to use the coin-operated facilities in the basement of his old brownstone. It and the people, all unfamiliar - too different from the house she'd grown up in. Peter'd taken that as it had come, but knew something else was beneath it. Didn't go digging for it but even without his old man specs he could see she was a fast learner; she had picked up the routine of laundry in less than a day, detergent portions and clothes order in all, but acted like she hadn't. And so, most times, the two of them were a pair down there. It had tickled something in him: Old-Man Parker, de facto repairman of the building when he wasn't in his shop _,_ and his new, quiet niece, doing laundry together.

Sounded like a downright domestic joke, a tease to him in his head _,_  and just domestic to everyone else.

The other tenants, nice and quiet enough people, in a nice enough building, in the friendlier than normal neighborhood the webhead had etched out for himself, had been surprised at first, like his customers. Like at work, Peter had just been focused on not putting his foot in his mouth around Mayday. Some people brought up how she looked like him in some ways - the messy hair and the quietness, mostly, two things that hadn't been true when he was younger, but that could've been said for the both of them - and that him being her uncle must have made him and her father pretty similar. Twins.

Kind words like that hadn't had the intended effect. She was... a good kid, a good girl, had accepted the compliments (he wasn't inclined to think of them as compliments) with a smile. But if nice words from strangers were enough to get her to cry herself to sleep at night, extended conversation from Peter himself couldn't have been any better, so it had been more reason to keep his distance.

That was hard to do when he was explaining to her, over and again, why it was important to give the drier that was nearly as old as him, a little staccato wrap on its head so it didn't burn your underwear. You needed to give the washer a kick or else it'd eat your t-shirts. Always reminded him of the symbiote like that.

He'd had a plan, insofar as his plans went, the crappy, half cobbled together, played-by-the-ear things they were: take care of Mayday, keep her alive, safe if possible but alive more importantly. If he could do that much he'd be score: 1 to… however many times he'd managed to fuck up being the hero to the people he cared about. As far as plans of a flower shop owner went, it seemed doable, heroic.

As far as a retiree variant of his brand of Spider-Man went, it seemed pretty laughable- that is,  _destined to succeed_  if he put his mind to it. Needed to remember those self-help tapes.

So he put his mind to getting her home when this was all over, back to her family and what friends she'd had over there. Knew the other six-hundred and sixteen hims had to be doing well enough with her baby brother, so he could do well enough with her, and try not to be too much of a trauma on her. He thought happy, positive thoughts about how it could have all been worse - that he could've been dead, and she would've had no out of retirement wallcrawler to come see while he was on the ups. And that would have sucked for the both of them, because if nothing else, she was a damn good change of scenery. Not just his apartment, but his life too.

So how in the  _hell_  he managed to stumble ass backwards into getting a fucking  _blowjob_  from the daughter he'd never had was beyond him.

The funny thing was it made sense in some kind of twisted way. Another bit from the universe's act on him, and that was always hilarious black comedy. Someone else for him to protect and, if he didn't let them down, he'd cock it up like usual. Couldn't rightly say that in any point from his fifteenth to his forty-sixth year he'd ever cocked something up by  _blowing his load_  over a girl's tonsils though, especially not when the girl was eagerly offering them as a target for him. Talk about a pair, the two of them were a straight almost- _flush_ , an asylum that was a couple of inmates short of a full house.

But it was with all of that that he realized that his plans were shit, like usual. Couldn't live anything he'd done down, no, and maybe he couldn't even make up for it - but he was stubborn enough to try. Happy-Peter had gone and checked out on his little girl… the least Peter could do to make up for that was to make sure he didn't do the same. Would be bad form, father or not, 'Daddy' or not, and he was supposed to be... what was it? Amazing.

That was an odd epiphany to have while Mayday was getting accustomed to sucking his cock and he was getting used to her doing it, but Peter didn't mind. Obviously, neither did she.

Of course they'd have something in common.

* * *

Peter steadied his breathing and inhaled. Blinked up at the ceiling a few times before looking down. His crotch was ticklish, not on fire with anticipation, but close enough for him to scoot his chair back. It bumped into the table as he ran out of space, and Mayday took what space he'd gotten and suckled it back into her mouth.

He tilted her face up to look at him, to slow her down and keep her eyes on him while his cock slid into her mouth. She was eager, too eager maybe, her tongue trying to lash and slather the fat underside of his prick like a paintbrush. Packed full of youth and anxiety - Peter knew what that was like too, though not from the same circumstances. She'd gotten a rhythm down, bobbing in his lap shallow but quick, and the movement had his suit on her shifting like a flighty gown.

It filled his head with images of his shirt and clothes being worn by the first one night stand he'd had in longer than she'd been alive . She wasn't one of those, at least he wasn't planning on her being one; she was the face he put to that mental image, and if she wasn't on her knees in it, she would have been in his stumbling of their fuck in his bedroom doorway.

Either way, Mayday looked more like her mother than she'd had since he'd seen her. It wasn't saying a lot, she was a world of her own, but the green eyes, red hair, adoring gaze, and freckles… that combo had always been a favorite of his.

He felt his balls clench, his cock jerk, and pushed her soundly, firmly off his shaft. A soft shot, easy cum working its way from the depths of his balls, smooth but frustrating. She tried to come back to him and he kept her away with one, strong hand on her forehead, leaving the heavy tube of fuckflesh bobbing in the air, clung with her saliva. Realizing he needed time, Mayday coughed, wheezed slightly, wiped her mouth, and gave him all the time in the world by moving back to his balls. She looked up at him while lapping over the swollen egg shaped things sitting pretty on her face. It'd been so long, inexperienced mouth or not, that even that was going to be enough to work him over.

And she was inexperienced. Couldn't say he was surprised, or relieved, just stubbornly and insistently pushing through the latest tidbit and piece thrown his way. Happy-Peter,  _him,_ had made a good enough father to raise her into a young woman that didn't know how to suck cock by the time she was 'almost' eighteen. But, now Peter was the one to teach her. How was that for cocking things up?

He breathed in sharply, muscles and hairy chest top lit by the kitchen light. From her spot between his legs Mayday continued looked up at him near silently, the bright, wet gleaming of her eyes punctuated by the wet, smacking noise of her lips against his throbbing balls. Sure as she was, her hands were uneasy as she put them to rest on his muscled legs, floating over his hair while knowing what she wanted to do but not how to do it. She licked her lips and swallowed, trying to suck one nut clear into her throat, smart and gentle enough to know it wasn't supposed to be a rush job, but the care and ease she carried it out with it made him slow her down anyway. She just moved on to the other one.

"Easy," Peter said, for want of something else to say, but there wasn't anything besides, "It's been a... long,  _long_ while. I'm out of practice." He thought it was a bad joke, but she smiled wider. Funny how she was the only one between the two of them that thought his brand of gab was funny.

Mayday nodded and started to slowly stroke his thighs, inner onto out. She licked her lips again and dragged the sheen of saliva from the bottom of his balls, tickling the hair there with her lips, nose, and then her tongue, and then down again to the bottom of his taint. Peter jolted in his chair as she started kissing around there, too.

"That's okay, Daddy," she said, her face peeking up at him from the looming shadow his prick left over it. The kitchen ceiling's light buzzed over the sound of the minute kisses she was leaving against the very base of his sack, finding a new rhythm in how his cock twitched above her, how his thighs clenched on either side of her. "I don't mind. You can just…  _cum_ whenever you want to, okay?"

She looked up and opened her mouth. Not like a trained prostitute - and not like he was a good judge - but he was experienced enough to see the signs of someone who didn't know what they were doing. He'd been that someone, could plainly see what was done in imitation of something seen before. In her case, it could've been porn. Wouldn't have been surprised in the slightest that in a world where the internet hadn't been strictly monitored in NYC by the symbiotic administration, teenagers got their hands on it at some point.

It wasn't until she slowly put out her tongue that it clicked for him, an older memory than her coming to the front of his mind. She hadn't learned from porn - she pressed the o-shape of her mouth to the tip of his cock, right against the engorged cumslit, and nudged her head beneath his hand to put in into her hair. It was feathery soft, but thick, and just enough to tug, just like he thought… and as Peter did she started slurping right at the source of his cum, rolling the storage of it in her soft hands. Peter knew where she learned it from because MJ had done this for him too.

Like she'd seen the look of realization in his eyes, Mayday spoke up. Sounded almost ashamed, but there wasn't any real space for it as they were. He almost thought he heard pride. Heard it or not, he ignored it.

"Mom would do this for you, right?" she said, more than asked. Her head tilted and she sunk low, bringing her tongue down the thick, twitching breadth of his prick, tracing the full, swollen contours of his balls. She suckled and nursed on them like they'd bear fruit before she came back up, looking even prouder as Peter gripped her head tighter and closed his eyes, a groan reverberating in the back of his throat, his voice bidding her to pull away, but his grip telling her to stay put.

She obeyed like a good girl, slurping off the globule of precum that started to flow out of his cock anew on her way up. In response to her question Peter didn't say yes, didn't say no, didn't so much as nod… but that low groan of his was enough and she smiled, her lips and mouth flush against the crook between his shaft and pelvis.

"I'd watch the two of you, you know," she said quietly. One of her hands started to slowly stroke him and Peter could feel the sensation of… something, in his prick at that speed. Tingling and roiling as the wet smack of her spit-covered palm greased his pole. Her other hand he couldn't see, but from the way her arm was moving, he imagined it was doing something similar. "Our house wasn't small, but the walls were too thin, I guess? You guys were just too loud. You thought I was sleeping, but I wasn't. I… I always felt bad about it," she clarified quickly, and a little bashfully.

"Not watching- I mean, I did at one point. I was,  _am_ fucked up. I just didn't want to disappoint you… or mom, I guess. You wanted your little girl to get good sleep but there I was, listening to the bed bash against the wall while you  _fucked_  mom until she screamed. Her voice would be gone in the morning and you'd tell me you needed to pick up some cough syrup. ...We spent a lot of money on cough syrup."

"'Day-" Peter started, but couldn't continue as she swirled her tongue against the underside of his cock carefully, like she was learning and seeing what worked, using the scientific method on him. She was her Daddy's girl, alright. A chip off the old block and an apple that had fallen a bit too close to his tree.

"Sometimes the door would be open," she clarified, closing her eyes and roving back up and down his cock, rubbing it along her face. She lost herself in the motions, near worshipful if not completely devoted, her panting hot breath against his fat, air-cooled, spit-covered prick laying flat against her face. Peter heard the wet noise of her fingers, knuckle-deep in her cunt, quickening as she did. "And sometimes, I'd open it. You'd get worried about me, sometimes and come to check up on me at night. Before I even knew about my powers I think my spider-sense would have me running back to my room, ducking under the covers. When I moaned a little too loud, you always heard, always stopped what you were doing. Even if you were making mom gush onto the bed you'd pull out of her and come running. To me. I… really, really liked that."

Mayday settled at his balls and kissed them, once, twice, a third for both. "Heh, those times you didn't come  _into_  my room to check on me, but while you were standing out my door with this big, hard… thing, your  _cock_ just  _yanked_ out of mom because I was more important to you- you never knew that I was just as naked under my covers, thinking about it." She laughed, and lapped at his balls. "Fucked up, right? Just  _wrong,_ I'm so fucked up… You tried so hard to keep me safe, didn't want me to be Spider-Girl, didn't want me to get hurt, but while you were worried about me I was fingering my fucked up little cunt to you fucking  _mom_ and wishing I was her _…"_

Peter didn't know what to say to that. One of the benefits of not being a teenager anymore was knowing when not to say anything. Instead, he rubbed her scalp easily, softly. A twisted, perverted act that felt more like it belonged in a smutty novel than coming from him and going to her, but he worked with what he had. "Don't worry about it," he said, stiltedly. His cock stilled, still engorged but with the urge to blow all over her face receding for a moment. Smiling down at her felt like it'd be the right thing but that had never been his card to play, so he pat her head.

"Don't worry about it…" he repeated, grunting. She nodded, resting at ease against his thigh. As much as she got from lapping at his balls, which she started to do, Peter suspected she got just as much from his hand on her head, his embrace intermingling and having a little dance party with the issues that he had, at least in part and in some small way, had left her with.

"The worst thing isn't even that," she said, renewing her efforts. Her stroking turned to slow, amateurish milking, the kind Peter remembered being the victim of while MJ was on her side, plump, plush breasts spilling out of a little black nighty, the fat of her ass perfectly round and beneath his fingers while she cooed up at him, kissed, licked, and worshiped his body. And Mayday smiled, managing to almost do the exact same thing.

"Worst part is… that if you had known, I don't think I would have stopped." Her voice was casual, a little wavering, but as she easily placed the first couple of heavy inches of his prick onto her tongue and sucked until they came out with a  _pop!_ , her tone was the same. "You would have still loved me, right?"

Even though he felt the answer would've been 'yes', Peter didn't think it was his place to say so. Biased in two different lanes both heading in the same direction, he eased open her mouth and helped her along to the next inch. Her tongue undulated and coiled beneath his cock, unused to it, but Mayday Parker was her Daddy's little girl and didn't back down until her gag reflex forced her to. A spray of saliva spilled out over his cock, splashing against his pelvis with force, but Peter left a lance of his own against the back of her throat. Mayday sucked it all down.

"You would have still loved me, and I… would have used that, I think," she said, laughing slightly as she pulled off. "My suit- it came from my Uncle Ben, you said. Your brother." She looked slightly curious, more open and talkative than he'd seen her in the weeks she'd been here. "Did you… have an Uncle Ben here? I mean,  _Ben,_ just- you know," she laughed again. A good sound that he was happy to hear, all things considered.

"Can't say I did," Peter said, just as casually, if only to not be beaten and backed away from the steady gaze she had on him. He plucked her lips with his fingers. She sucked them into her mouth, nuzzling against his thickly muscled forearm.

"Well, I did. I had a sister, too… April. It's an entire thing but- the suit, it wasn't made for  _me,_ so… I had to make my own," Mayday continued. She was stroking his cock, peppering kisses on it, like background music at this point. Lapping up the steady stream of almost-cum drooling from his piss slit like clockwork. "Mom roped you into helping me, but you wouldn't have if I hadn't asked. And did, like, a lot." She started to giggle and her voice went high enough to become hoarse and throaty. That had its own effect on Peter. " _'Please_ , Daddy!  _Please_?' And when it was done and you saw how…  _tight_ I had made it, mom had to keep you from ripping it up!"

It was her smile that had his coming out. Smaller and subtler, hidden by the scruff of his facial hair, but there. Odd and strange, like hearing about his life from another world while his not-daughter nursed at his cock as thought it was a dedicated thought of hers, not an afterthought. If there was going to be a convention of Spider-Men ever, Peter figured it best to just not go, on principle alone.

His smile seemed to make her open up even more. Her voice got more animated, eyes more alive, happy, if it were possible. "The few times we'd go out together, webswinging, I mean," she said, pursing her pouty lips, "I'd show off. I wanted to make you proud, wanted you to show off to me, too. Like mom said you used to when you took her out, but… I wanted you to  _look_  at me, too. At me, the same way you looked at her. The way you look at me now."

She looked down at herself and his suit on her with a little shrug. "I knew you wouldn't, and I know I'm not  _like_  her in a lot of ways, but I-I guess I just wanted to show you I could do more than her. Like this."

Taking a deep breath, she stretched her mouth open wide and held his cock true before sinking it into her mouth. Peter didn't think it would fit, almost didn't think at all while it almost didn't fit. The sides of her teeth scraped it because a cock his size hadn't been made with blowjobs in mind, but the fleshy rocking of her tongue against the tip of his prick, the wet, undulating tightness of her mouth was enough to make him arch his hips. He felt it reach the back of her throat and down before she started to cough, but she didn't stop. She started gagged loudly, flecks of spit and spew hitting his legs and balls, but Mayday kept up the descent, her tongue stubbornly lashing against his throbbing prick, her hands working their newfound rhythm of coaxing every last drop of pent up jizz from his balls and into her stomach.

It was in-between feeling her shuffle against and hump his leg, cunt drooling hotly against his shin, and feeling her lips encircle enough to kiss around his shaft, that Peter considered letting her have what she wanted. Not her father, not his responsibility to teach her right from wrong when she got… bratty.

He tugged on her hair a little harder than he meant to, but her head came up and his prick snaked out of her throat regardless. Mayday tugged back, fought against his grip as his cock was left twitching freely in the cool, open air, sucking it back into her mouth in a single-minded frenzy. He tried pulling her away again, scooting back in his chair but she shook her head, muffled grunts of, " _Mmn-mm!"_ vibrating through him and down to his balls as they clenched. "Don't stop," she wheezed. "Don't have to stop, Daddy. Just…  _use_  me -  _smkk_ \- like the fucked up little girl I am -  _smkk_  - okay? It's  _my_ turn now! Cum in my mouth and make me drink it Daddy, cum down my  _fucking_   _throat!_ I can take it, I'm a big girl now Daddy, I can fucking  _take it, please_ …"

So Peter did. He growled, gripping the back of her head and sunk himself back into the warm embrace of her throat with all the ease of a glacier coming to shore. She gripped and held onto his thighs at first, then her hands went between her legs to eek out another cum as he took control. Shore was her tonsils, pushed aside by the wide mass of his throbbing prick, her gripping throat milking it.

Landfall was his balls soundly against her chin and her nose against his pelvis, her throat packed full of his cock so she couldn't breathe, even while her voice was mewling out muffled screams as she came, her cunt wetly splashing and slicking against her wildly thrusting fingers as her body seized while she humped the air, ground her body against him, and fucked her face onto his prick as the first hot, thick torpedoes of his cum touched down right in the center of her stomach. Peter thought he heard her burp.

He lost himself in it. Found himself standing up and holding her head like a ball, grinding her face into his crotch with all of the force of a wrecking ball, but she could take it, fuck, could she hold her breath and take it. She was right, Daddy's little girl, his little Spider-Girl in all, was perfect for it… his powerful, work-worn fingers dug into her scalp and gripped her hair and her throat constricted around him, his balls clenched and his cock pulsed, another hot, chunky load of their aged slime shooting and sludging up her throat, and she groaned for him, wrapping her legs around one of his and rubbing against him like a pole. He found himself back on his ass, back in his chair, and she was there for him, grinding her head against the hard wall of his pelvis for him to drain his balls right into her, stuffing her mouth and throat, hands roaming his body while he emptied his nuts for the first time in decades.

Stars and flashes exploded behind his eyes, enough to make him feel stupid and high. He panted, slowly easing away from the breeding, grinding press he had on her head and his rocking his hips slightly outward, but never out. The table moved, rocking on two legs out of for, and Mayday made up the distance. Every time she swallowed it was another paroxysm in her throat, another tremor in her Daddy's balls, and another viscous shot of sperm to add to the pile sitting in her good-girl throat for breakfast. That got another laugh out of him too as he pat her head and fucked her face.

"Good… girl," he groaned.

She groped his body in response, from his legs to his ass and balls. He had his hands at her throat as he slowly snaked his prick out of her face, feeling the bulge recede from her neck inch by inch. The second it popped out of her throat she was coughing, so he held her steady even while chunks of sperm came back and hit his cock. Noticing that, she cleaned them up even if it meant coughing again. And then she looked up at him, eyes red and cheeks redder from his pelvis bashing against her face.

Mayday opened her mouth to show him what he'd done. Her tongue looked utterly coated, her teeth clung to with his ballsnot, and a thin, viscous line of his cum just behind her lips, hanging from her teeth. She swallowed and licked her lips clean, but the mess was in her stomach now. And then she burped.

After, basking in the silence, barely awake, he felt her settle in his lap, head resting against his leg. She asked something he couldn't especially hear. She didn't ask again until after he'd nudged his half-hard cock back to her mouth, letting her suckle on the last few ropes stuck in it.

"Mom couldn't do that for you, could she Daddy?" she panted, pausing to smile up at him, stroking him softly by her cheek. What he gave in response, letting her suck on and kiss his fingers as his hand roamed her hair, wasn't an answer, not really, but Mayday didn't need one.

Because the answer was: no, she couldn't.

* * *

Peter got her something to drink. It hadn't been so long that he'd forgotten that women generally didn't like having spunk dropped into an empty stomach. Or they did and he had forgot, or maybe it was just his spunk since it was so thick. Either way, he didn't want her choking on a stray protein string after deciding he'd do his best to not die for her sake. Or after putting said protein string in her throat in the first place.

He got her up off the floor gingerly - not sure how much having his durability played into being on her knees, but it couldn't have been comfortable. They were red and flushed like the rest of her body, and the floor directly beneath her was soaked clear with a drooling puddle of her juices. After the fact, she seemed a little embarrassed about it as she stood up on weak legs. Seeing her stumble, Peter swept her up into his arms like a paper weight and carted her over to the couch and laid her down.

He left, wiped up her wastefully dripped juices, and came back with a cup of water. Not the most appetizing thing, but better than OJ for taste, he figured. Sitting up, Mayday accepted it and put it down on the table in front of the couch. The sense was starting to come back to his previously-lust-addled brain and Peter frowned. "Drink it," he said.

She looked him in the eye. "I want to keep tasting it," she said. He must have made a face because she laughed. Her voice was raspy and raw sounding. He didn't have to guess why. "It tastes good. You taste good, Dad."

Peter blinked extremely slowly before opening his eyes. "Well I don't want you choking," he said. "So drink." Mayday obeyed with a small, listless looking pout.

She swayed in her seat, looking a little drunk. Cumdrunk even, and he sighed, wondering wondered when the last time was that she'd… relieved stress that well. Cum that hard, fingerfucked herself so freely, he felt right in saying. Because if she had before now, he would have heard it. Maybe she just waited until he went out on patrol… or maybe she'd gotten his libido along with her mother's hairtrigger and could do it whenever.

There was a thought he never thought he'd have, one Happy-Peter damn sure had never had, but it wasn't the last one. If he wasn't dead, Peter would have killed himself. The universe was just coming up with all sorts of humdingers this week.

Mayday sipped lightly at her cup, humoring him before she set it down. She looked at him and down - he was still hard, but made a habit of ignoring it. She reached out to him and he stopped her by her wrist. "But- why?" she asked, more confused than hurt, but there was that on her face, too.

Common sense was in his head, so whether hurt on her face was better than his semen, Peter didn't know. He held her wrist gently, unable to find an answer. The line was already so far behind them that, while he could still see it, he didn't see the point in trying to backtrack. Just wasn't his way. His way was stubbornness, even while moving forward. "Because we need to set ground rules."

Mayday smiled softly, her eyes half-lidded as she eased her wrist out of his grasp. He didn't stop her, not even as she started to cradle his balls. She scooted closer to the edge of the couch, where he was, so she could kiss them. Kiss him in every place she could, being at waist height. "Okay, Daddy. I'll listen," she said. She was licking softly at the fat crown of his prick, taking more delight in how it twitched against her tongue than he was. "I'm a good girl."

Peter sighed. She wasn't wrong. "Of course you are."

He stood there and let her jerk him off over the couch, something that played a few times in his head because she was  _jerking him off_  over the couch. He didn't have the required amount of backed up jizz in his testicles versus brains in his skull to not see a problem with that. He had enough to be middling, and take deep breaths as Mayday drooled a heavy strand of saliva onto his cock to shine it better with long, worshipful strokes while she peered up at him, one of his balls resting in her mouth.

When she pulled away, it was to speak. His cock was on her lips like she was too close a microphone on a podium, but she didn't see a problem with that. Her introductory speech was to kiss it. "...I'm going to stay here. Okay?"

And here he was, thinking that he'd been the one with the epiphany. That she needed it, this, more than he did. "That's not up for me to decide, 'Day," he said.

"Well I've decided. And I decided I want to stay here with you," she said determinedly. "After this is all over, after I check on mom, and Benjy, I'll be back here, and-"

There was a slight tapping at his bedroom window. Peter only heard it because her voice had dropped to a quiet, sincere whisper, and his head snapped up at the sound. He was on the third floor of his building. There was a fire escape to it - the ladder had broken from rust years ago. It was why he kept one in his closet, just in case something ever happened. The drop was a good eight feet or so. Far taller than anyone could have reached to climb up.

He had a feeling. Not a bad one, but one he was used to. Mayday saw the look on his face. "What is it?" she asked.

"Put some clothes on," he said, and looked around for his pants. "We have company." His pants were in his room still, so he'd have to go in there, heavy, hard dick swinging. That was fine, it wasn't like he'd never seen his own cock before.

And as Peter walked into his room, half dressed with his dick out, he did see himself. Peter Benjamin Parker, aged somewhere beneath drinking age and younger than 'almost' eighteen, gingerly tapping on the window. He wasn't surprised at that. But the mocha-skinned, dark haired young woman in the sleeziest approximation of his spider-costume he had ever seen did get a small, low, "Fuck," out of him.

Ashley Barton whistled lowly, her wide eyes visible through her mask. She said exactly what Peter was thinking. "Well  _goddamn..."_


	4. Par for the Course

 

It couldn't have been past 10am and Peter had already exposed himself to minors. His morning was off to a good start.

He assumed they were minors. One of them, the young man that stood outside his bedroom window, was frozen like he'd seen a ghost. Even with his primary colored getup on he didn't look like he could have been older than sixteen. The mask was in poor taste, Peter thought. Made the kid look like a funhouse mirror set to Peter Parker's sophomore year instead of just a walking flashback that he didn't need and hadn't asked for.

But he supposed that after spending his morning as he had, he got what was coming to him. An errant punchline thrown by the universe. There was no dodging that, and so it hit Peter in the face – a lot like the sight of his erect penis standing at attention between his legs must have hit junior-him.

And while that  _was_  funny, Peter still held out a vain hope that beneath that mask was one of those non-Parker webheads that fortunately existed. Wouldn't be his first rodeo meeting one, the last one had been dressed down in a Union Jack and sounded like a discount Pierce Brosnan **.**  A friendly guy from a friendly British neighborhood that had made him a smart offer: "Come with me and sit pretty with a bunch of different versions of yourself so you don't die," he had said.

Not in so many words, there was a 'mate' there somewhere, and a 'sir' as if Peter was older than he felt, but twenty years on his lonesome had made that an offer he couldn't help but refuse. Mayday had come along not long afterward.

As far as non-Parker spider-people went, the girl with Junior certainly was. Her color combination said which crowd she was moving with, but she certainly wasn't him unless Peter Parker came in teen girl flavor, rather than a teen girl's flavor. She was a bit shorter than both Junior and Mayday. Her skin was smooth and light, like coffee and cream, and was exposed at her shoulders and her face because of a cheap looking half-mask that covered her eyes beneath messy, dark bangs.

Peter had seen enough knockoffs to know that her mask had been swiped out of a bargain bin in the back of a dollar store or someplace similar. And while Junior's suit looked new, as though he cobbled together bits and pieces of the theatre club's scraps as a loveletter to a career in tailoring he'd never indulge, the girl's suit beyond the mask was somewhat old. Only in some places, patchwork everywhere else like a hand-me-down made new. The large black spider sitting between her breasts more reminded Peter of Mayday and the getup she had worn when she'd stopped by his friendly neighborhood than his own.

Save for a couple of discrepancies. She wasn't wearing a bra for one, and it showed – the full weight of her breasts causing them to protrude blatantly inside the thin fabric of her suit. For the second time in a single day, he was looking at a teenaged girl's nipples.

Two, unlike Mayday upon seeing his hard dick, the girl's first inclination was to whistle and comment instead of just staring at it. If "Holy  _shit,"_ was much of a comment. Peter had a rebuttal of his own, if "Fuck," was much of one.

He said it louder and more vehement than necessary to keep Mayday out of the bedroom. Maybe he should have done that sooner. Maybe it didn't even matter at this point, but with as thorough as she'd been, having the two of them in the same room while the spit-slicked, kiss pecked portions of his cock and testicles shone in the morning sun was a recipe for letting the cat be out of the bag – even if it had damn near clawed its way out already.

But, he'd started off the day with a blowjob. That was nice. He had his daughter writhing against him, heavy petting and a grinding lapdance, before he drained his nuts right into her throat, her tight little good-girl stomach, and that was wrong, but very,  _very_  nice…

That's right Parker, Peter thought, keep thinking positive.

Junior-him covered his face to avoid the erection an old man that looked like him had jutting from between his legs. "Oh my  _god_ …" Is what he said, sounding no younger than a fifteen year old turning away to avoid his saddest future. He had the right idea. "This is going to haunt me for the rest of my life, isn't it?"

"Let's be honest, you're glad your dick's gonna be that big when you get some hair on your balls, aren't you?" the girl asked, and Junior let out a death-curdling noise. "Though really,  _I_ didn't expect this when I woke up today. Did you, gramps?" She looked at Peter and grinned, but not at his face.

Peter was looking down a barrel where the bullets in the chamber looked like heavy, plump breasts. After flinging viscous nut straight into his not-daughter's hungry stomach for her breakfast, he stopped caring. "You two mind?" he asked, rubbing his forehead like he wasn't standing there naked, or erect. It was his apartment. "I'm busy right now."

The girl made a small gesture, her eyes flicking down at her breasts. She made a circle a circle with her hand and started to move it back and forth, masturbating the air and popping her lips. "Getting your morning stroke on, huh?" she asked.

Junior made a discomfited noise seeing and hearing that and looked like he wanted to jump off the fire escape.

"Yes," Peter said flatly. "Because I'm an old man who didn't expect to be interrupted by two trick or treaters in the middle of April _."_

She made a familiar expression of opening her mouth and closing it, settling into a soft, pouty lipped smile. "I'm not judging you," she said in a quiet, raspy voice that sounded use to being rough and loud. "Go on, then. We'll wait. Take your time, old man."

Peter took her advice. He grabbed his until-then-forgotten work pants off the bed, and the girl commented as she watched him, noticing his nightshift pair along with his mask laying by the pillow where Mayday had left them. Peter took them too. "So. Long night?" she asked.

"You could say that," he grumbled, then shut the blinds on her. And the curtains. And the window.

She sucked her teeth and whined as he left the room and shut the door behind him. "Aw."

* * *

In the living room Mayday was on her toes waiting for him – a more potent picture than he had the patience to ignore at the moment. His mind ran, not sure what to do and always with the lack-of-plans that characterized the times he needed them most. Because he'd self-proclaimed that for her sake he wouldn't die, checking out due to a heart attack at this point just wasn't on his menu. That was fine, he was too stubborn for that anyway. Would need a better plan than that.

In the absence of one his tunnel vision came out as he saw her worried eyes and flushed face. Her lips were a bit swollen and puffy and reddened from making spit-slicked laps over the broad surface of his cock, her delicate fingers minutely rubbing her throat to ease the pain, and the surface of his suit was still wet with the slop of her spit when it drooled out of her mouth, down his balls, and onto the fabric.

It didn't give him a plan at all, just a stiffer hard-on and a facsimile of a plan. If making sure the inter-dimensional spider-brigade didn't find out he'd committed incest for breakfast was much of one. And it wasn't, not to Peter. One hell of a joke, though.

He dropped the latter half on the couch, unable to care any less about it, and checked the window. The curtains there were shut, but he went over them just in case their wallcrawling houseguests were curious.

Mayday picked everything up, as quick as a whip, and started to dab away the wet spots from the couch with his suit. Peter admired her resolve – she was only slightly panicking. "They're… here for me," she said, swallowing. "I had said to- said I- I  _said_  that I'd check in, but-"

Peter held up his hand, not looking at her. He didn't need to hear anything else. Maybe some other version of himself with kids of his own wouldn't want her going off on her lonesome without some way to make contact, and there had to be more than one Parker with a happy family life.

Wasn't sure if that was his atrophied optimism talking or his matured cynicism, but it wasn't the fact that he was in a screwed up version of parental visitation that had him letting out a groan from the back of his throat. He'd almost literally screwed the pooch. He hadn't, yet, but MJ had called him  _Tiger_ , and Mayday was her Daddy's little girl, and so Peter had just gone and  _hump-fucked_  their little pussy instead.

Mayday looked down, the stubborn determination she'd had before seeming to ebb out of her like she could tell what was going through his head. "…Sorry," she muttered.

Peter gave her a once over and put his game face on. It didn't look too different from his regular, save for the fact that it had a deeper frown. "You need to get dressed."

She flinched at the tone of his voice and he didn't want to notice. "Dad?"

Peter was making a list as he rubbed his eyes. Extra hair dye just in case today left him with shock white hair. Detergent, smoke alarm. No condoms. "Go in the shower. Get dressed," he said, then paused. Worry and hurt on Mayday's face was like a slap to his. He went over to her, clasping her slender arms with his large hands. "Look, we are on… thin ice, here, 'Day, so you need to listen to me. Calm down, get dressed. And shower."

He made a joke. She made it easy to make one even as his head was starting to hurt. "Not necessarily in that order, even. Just…  _ground rules_ , 'Day."

"Okay. …Okay," she said, and nodded, schooling her expression in the cutest game face he'd ever seen. Leagues above his own even with her puffy lips and reddened cheeks and freckles. Maybe because of them.

The girl at his window seemed the type to know what to look for, but on the bright side, Peter could only faintly smell his cum on his daughter's breath, it was so far down in her belly. The pubic hairs clinging to the corner of her mouth along with her saliva was a different story. He roughly swabbed them away with his thumbs. Mayday's arms came out and froze. "Daddy, I-  _mmph-!"_

"None of that," Peter said, inspecting her for any other discrepancies. "Not now. Just call me…" His mind flashed to the tail end of that passed year where his biggest trouble was taking on his vengeful alien ex and its incumbent staff. Peter's last name fell out of his mouth like his nut had fallen into her stomach. "Parker, alright? Just Parker."

If she minded his hands on her face, rubbing her lips at all, she didn't in the slightest. Peter could see that much. She pursed her lips while he wiped at them, rolling the name in her head and looking cute as he took the collar of his suit and cleaned her face like she had just finished a large, messy meal. When her stomach gurgled, full of his cum, the parallels of the action weren't lost on Peter.

"Okay," she mouthed, and smiled slightly a second afterward. "Mr. Parker."

He gave her a look that made her smile wider, but didn't contest the change. Instead, he swiveled her around and started carted her to the bathroom door. She stopped short at the last second and they pressed against the wood, Mayday on it and his wood on her. Going by the look in her eye as she looked over her shoulder, Peter had a feeling she did it on purpose, having his bad timing as she did.

He glanced at the curtains again to make sure they were down as he felt his prick sandwich right between her plush cheeks. What progress he made in getting rid of his erection was gone as his cock surged to full hardness, sliding beneath his suit on her, and into the crack of her ass. Then, flush against her softly toned stomach as she turned to face him. Just as he managed to scrounge enough sense to pull away, she pulled him back and kissed him.

"I'm not leaving though," she reminded him, as if their guests would have made him forget. Her throat bobbed thickly, just showing that she was far more nervous than she showed. Daddy's little girl… "So… so later we can keep going, if you want."

Peter wanted to. He wanted a lot of things. His way with words was worse than his penchant for actions, so he kissed her back. Chastely on the lips to make up for that and everything else. Then harder, just because he just felt like it.

He started taking his clothes off her – even if she did look better wearing them. They kissed in between that, hot and feverish pecks diving into each other and beneath the fabric. The red and blues crested over her head and Peter pulled away before he could grind himself against her and get them stuck. Again, Mayday kept him put, her heels hooking behind his legs, her lips sucking on his tongue, her hips trying to spur his into heavy petting against her smoldering, puffy cunt mound. At the same time, his stubborn prick was trying to convince him that they had enough time to spend time with each other while his fanclub was waiting outside.

Peter forced himself to pull away before she could take something and pop another she could never not-take, never  _un_ pop, back. He hefted her up by the waist and her first thought was to wrap her legs around his and bring him closer, her hot, tight body against him and her wet, undulating tongue flicking against his. While she did, Peter opened the bathroom door, stepped inside, pried her off him, and dropped her.

" _Ah_!" she hissed, looking up at him surprised and scowling lightly, but didn't try to stop him as he closed the door behind him. She was a good girl and they both knew it.

"I'll bring you more clothes," he said.

He heard her laugh a little disbelievingly, a lot more breathlessly, but happily all the same from the inside out. His name fell off her tongue a lot easier than his other one did. "Thank you, Mr. Parker..."

* * *

Going by his playbook of bad ideas, meeting two dimension-hopping spider-kids in the same venue he'd almost fucked his daughter sounded like a bad idea. And so, Peter got dressed; tan slacks, button-sleeved dress shirt, black shoes, a cheap watch with his webshooters on and a couple of doodads in his pocket to top it all off, just to be safe. Only after did he remember to wash the smell of almost-sex off his prick in the damn kitchen sink _._

After, Peter went back to the two trick or treaters in a way they hadn't expected. From the roof. This kind of near-panicked rush was making him feel nostalgic. Didn't care for it.

He cleared his voice, peering over the parapet of his brownstone and they looked up. The look of disappointment on the girl's face because he hadn't sauntered out in his primary colors was obvious. Supposed he'd made a fan, if her way of dress wasn't an obvious enough indication.

Maybe in some world some dumb girl had gotten bitten by a spider after some other him had up and died. Peter had to give it to her though, she had a good sense of humor about the entire thing. "Tch, I wanted to meet Spidey-Man and instead I get to meet you," she said, looking up at him from the black metal of the fire escape.

Peter replied in sour humor of his own. "Sorry to disappoint. Just an old man. You want the webhead, he's right next to you."

"God,  _please_ don't bring me into this…" Junior muttered.

"Bet you never had to apologize for disappointing a girl in your life, huh old man?" she asked, hands on her hips. She was… technically accurate. "But hey,  _I'm_  not disappointed." She pointed at Junior. "And he's not Disappointed either. He's Spider-Boy, and I'm older than him."

"Which you never stop reminding me of."

"Because it's funny."

"Ugh, just call me Peter Pan because I never want to grow up, now.  _Ever._ "

The girl laughed, chewing her lip as she looked at Peter. He knew he shouldn't like that look, but his mind was still hazy. "…Hey, aren't you worried about people seeing us here? Got some kind of secret identity policy, don't you?"

Peter considered it. He didn't have anyone's well-being to worry about other than his place of business. "It's a screwed up neighborhood," he said. "Stranger things around here than a couple of kids with bad fashion sense."

She grinned, looking at the spider between her breasts. "Not that bad. And the neighborhood looks pretty friendly."

He took that as a compliment. "Your standards must be really low, miss…"

"The name's Ashley, gramps. Ashley Barton. Try not to forget it."

He would have if he could have, along with the last twenty minutes that started after finding them at his window. He would have considered it a blessing. "Barton," he muttered, frowning. The name sounded familiar. A guy named Eagle-eye, maybe.

She must have found that funny. "Hawkeye," Ashley said, looking pleased at seeing him recognize the name. "He's my  _daddy._ Unfortunately."

Peter grunted. It had been years and the last he had heard the Avengers had opened up an academy for kids with powers. Heard they had a varsity team that played with Xavier's kids. Sometimes he had even received invitations in the mail to attend. He grunted. "Sounds like a personal problem. The both of you, get up here."

They listened like good enough kids, though the way the girl walked told Peter she didn't come from such a good neighborhood, or parents. With more than just a swish in her hips and confidence on her sleeve as she climbed up the steps of the fire escape, it was a testament to Junior's upbringing that he was looking away as vehemently as possible. The Parkers had raised a good and proper boy in him, and yet Peter was going to have to find a way to lie through his teeth to all of his neighbors about how he hadn't heard anything on the escape that morning if they asked.

They stood on the roof, and Peter cut the image of a freshly groomed, respectable working man in front of them. Not a middle-aged vigilante with nothing better to do but beat bad people silly and sell flowers, or a man who fucked his daughter's throat in his free time, just a working man who'd chosen to stay home that day.

He crossed his arms and waited. Before leaving the apartment he'd told Mayday to meet him on the roof. He was a recluse, not Martha Stewart, and she knew him well enough to know that.

"So…" Ashley started leadingly, a waiting smile on her face. "You gonna invite us inside?"

"No."

"No!"

Ashley smirked at the both of them said, one of their voices breaking and the other one sounding gravelly-timbred. "Like looking into a mirror, ain't it gramps?" she asked… Peter, he supposed, but poked Junior in the elbow. One of them grunted and the other groaned, and she snickered. "Well  _I'm_  having a fun time."

Peter closed his eyes. "The two of you are here for Mayday, right?"

"She didn't check in," Junior said. "So we got sent to… check on her."

'Check in' – they were a scouting party. That meant there was more to the larger group of them all than just an almost uniform, yet no less rag-tag group of people with spider-powers. Organized, planning, in a group – that didn't sound like any Parker that Peter knew. Must've been the Union Jack spider-guy he'd met was in charge. Or maybe he was the only version of himself to not go and ask for help even when he needed it. The one that always need someone else with more sense and less stubbornness than him to do that.

He realized he was looking dead-on at Junior, and that had him thinking of all the things that the kid hadn't done yet. The people he hadn't met yet. Peter's head hurt – Ashley was a lot easier on his eyes.

Not just because she was almost as petite as Mayday, if a little more filled out and sporting a body that was visibly not as used to fighting crime, but because she didn't look like anyone Peter had ever met before, but he still put distance between them and sat on the further away parapet while the morning rush hour kicked into full gear. His watch said it was just past 10am, so that much was still right with the world.

"Is it weird?" Ashley said, mimicking him in the quiet lull that came about. Junior looked like he didn't know what to do with his whole body, and she shoved him toward the edge almost playfully. Looking at them, if he hadn't known Junior, Peter would have thought they were siblings. "Sit  _down,_ gramps," Ashley told him.

Peter told himself he must have misheard her. He rolled up his sleeves and inspected his webshooters, just in case. Didn't want them running empty or dry or having the cartridges falling out when he needed them. The two teenagers watched him more attentively than he was comfortable with though. He felt like an old dog getting stared at by a couple of puppies. "Is what weird?" he asked.

Ashley looked at her own webshooter, having just the one. It looked as old as her costume, a beaten up looking thing that was different from his, but eerily similar to the first one he'd ever made. It was metallic and rusted, and clunked and clinked like a heavy, forgotten bracelet. Junior's were similarly designed, except in far better condition. "Shacking up with the golden girl," Ashley said, voice quieting. "May. Your daughter."

Peter raised a brow, but Ashley just looked at him. 'Shacking up'… she had a way with words. "Not my daughter," he said.

"No wife either?" Ashley asked. "Always heard Peter Parker had a wife. Nice lady – was weird for this one when he heard it. He can barely get a date as it is."

"Someone should  _really_  ground you. You talk too much," Junior said. He'd taken a tentative seat by her and she slapped him open-palmed on the back. He tipped over the building and panicked, and she pulled him back while laughing.

Must not have had his powers for long then, Peter figured. Probably not even a couple of months after his school field trip. Ben could still be alive, but Peter didn't think it right of him to ask. He put his attention back to his webshooters, the extra-cartridges beneath his belt and in his pockets for good measure. "No," Peter said. "No wife."

Ashley frowned. "No kids? Grandkids?"

Peter didn't care for the direction this conversation was taking. "No. _"_

He said vainly hoped the tone of his voice would say enough, but untimely gab must have been a spider-people thing instead of a Parker thing though, because Ashley Barton just kept talking. "But… why the fuck  _not_?"

"Ashley-" Junior started.

Peter cut him off with a heavy sigh. He'd made his peace with it, and with not a moment to spare, all things considered. "She died."

Ashley's mouth opened, and then shut it in a way he remembered doing when he was at a loss for what to say. "Oh," she said, her mouth opening, then closing. "Well… shit. Sorry, old man."

Peter grunted and looked at Junior just to see if his mind started wandering to the wrong places, which he knew it had. His would've. "Happened a long, long time ago…" he clarified. "Nothing I could do," he said. It was the truth, the longest running trend Peter had ever seen, and the least funny joke he'd ever heard.

"Aunt May?" Junior whispered.

"Heart attack. Didn't get there in time. Was busy."

Junior quieted. Ashley rubbed at her arm and filled in that silence. " _Shit,_  I thought… fuck," she swallowed and took off her mask. Beneath messy, dark bangs of her hair Peter saw ice-blue eyes. She pursed her lips, looked at him, and Peter saw that look of snap decisions in her, too. It had her putting her mask back on instead of something stupid. "Sorry," she said again, her voice quiet.

Junior tried to comfort her, but she waved him off. "Save it for yourself, Parker," she said, trying to be flippant about it, but Peter had written the book on that. "I don't need it."

He'd also written the book on secrets and secret identities. Peter closed his eyes and said probably not the best thing. "You're… not some other me's kid, are you?" he asked, knowing he'd left out the requisite care he should have put in.

Ashley let out a snort. "Your kid? Fuck, no," she said, and waited for him to sigh in relief before she smiled thinly at him. "I'm your  _granddaughter_. Ashley Barton… Parker, I guess."

His brain came to a stop. But his mouth didn't. "Not mine," Peter said woodenly.

Ashley's grin faltered into a smile, and that broke into nothing. It bounced back quick though, but never quick enough for him to not know he'd said the wrong thing. "No…" she said. "You-  _he…_ Been dead a long,  _long_  time, old man. Blaze of glory or some shit _,_ saving people's lives and leaving his wife and kids behind. …I just thought it'd be nice if I could see you-  _them_ , here. The whole happy family. Little aunt April and Mayday – maybe even Tonya." She let out a weak laugh. "My mom-  _stupid_  name, right? I mean, after naming your kids after months of the year, who names their last kid  _Tonya?_ I mean, just keep with the fuckin' trend, right?"

Sounded like there were issues there. Peter knew about those and didn't have much to say on the subject, only that she was a girl that was in good company that had bad history. Another neighborhood that wasn't his, a family that wasn't his, and a girl that wasn't his that he'd managed to put his foot in his mouth around and damn near make her cry.

He gnashed his cheek but it didn't seem to do much good since he kept talking anyway. "Don't ask me for any birthday presents."

Ashley stared at him. "… _Fucking shit_ , you suck at this. You know that, right?" Peter nodded once, humorlessly. Somehow she found enough humor in that to laugh. "Don't worry gramps, not gonna ask you for a damn thing."

She didn't sound angry. If anything, she sounded like he'd steered her from whatever sad corner he'd driven her to. Like Mayday, as if that was a special skill of his. Peter chose to believe she only started to laugh from disbelief that he and her old,  _old_ man shared the same name. That they were just different enough that she didn't have to feel bad that he was unable to roll out the, "Sorry I died on you," carpet and offer her cookies and milk. Or whatever grandfathers were supposed to do. Had a sneaking suspicion showing off his third leg wasn't one of those things.

"Going by that apartment of yours, probably don't have much to offer," Ashley shrugged, gabbing on. "Besides that fuckin' kidney puncher in your pants I mean. Mind explaining to me how in the  _fuck_  you're still single with that? Because it'd be nice if I were born here, I think. Better neighborhood than the one I grew up in."

Peter suppressed a strangling noise. Junior didn't. "It doesn't work that way," he managed to say.

"Well, not with that attitude. Y'know how many yous I've seen today without grandkids?" She asked, and Peter's mind shook like a goldfish in an earthquake as he looked at her. "All of 'em, and most of 'em younger than me. One of  _you_  big dicked fucks needs to hurry up and get laid so  _I_  can be born."

Junior tipped over the edge of the roof and it was only a single webline that stopped him from falling. "Please," he said as Peter tugged him back from the brink. He tried in vain to yank off the webbing. "Just let it end. Let it all end…"

Ashley cackled.

In a single day, Peter had received oral sex from his daughter, exposed himself to himself and his granddaughter, and get complimented on them by her. Now… this. He didn't know how to feel about it, but settled on something adjacent to optimism – wouldn't have been something he would have been able to experience if he'd gone to work.

Fortunately before his brain came up with something without his permission, the door to the roof opened and Mayday came out. Also fortunately, she hadn't sauntered out in his suit, but aside from her bra she wasn't wearing the clothes he'd left for her. She was wearing his, as if to send him a message – one of his old baseball t-shirts hung off her almost as loosely as his suit, and a pair of his pants that didn't show off her tight body any. Since he still couldn't help but look at her as she came out, that was probably for the best.

She waved after sparing a brief, questioning frown at Ashley and Junior, looking as though Peter had called her namesake and she'd come running. "Hi, uh… what's going on? You kids having fun? Need a drink or something?" She asked casually, managing to mostly not ramble. Peter smiled at that.

Ashley looked her up and down, and then up at her face, and reclined on the parapet. "…Huh. Thought you'd be darker…" she muttered. Peter sighed. "Nothin' much. Just talking about your Daddy's big dick, Auntie. Nice shirt."

Mayday turned to him and blinked once. "… _What?"_

Junior groaned. " _I_ wasn't talking, and I don't want to be a part of this conversation anymore…"

"Quit complaining, Parker. You'll grow into it," Ashley said, and peered over the swell of her breasts to look at Peter. She grinned. "You wanna tell her gramps, or should I?"

Mayday was quick enough on the uptake. She just gave him a smile and made a joke. "Well, Mr. Parker?"

Peter smiled back wanly. "Think I've scarred you all enough for one day."

It was Thursday.

* * *

Ashley'd been the one to lay it down for them, nice and simple and without much of a filter. She made Peter wonder if his way with words skipped a generation or not. "Big boy blue was getting worried. Wants you to check in. Figured you'd want to see the little snotbubble, too," she said to Mayday.

Beforehand, Junior looked at the skyline and wondered how his life had gotten to this point. Peter had snorted at the notion. "Is that… the Bugle?"

Peter looked along with him. "It was," he said. In the distance, just barely visible from his building, was what was left of the place.

"What…happened to it?"

The symbiote hadn't been a fan of Jonah. It was almost poetic – Spider-Man's biggest detractor taken down by his worst fan, though ruined was the better word for it. As much as the symbiote had an axe to grind against the webhead, yet encourage people to dress as Spider-Man and doff their webheaded stuff on Halloween during its mayoral administration, there was that same confusion that had it hating Jameson just as much if not more.

At the end of the day, it had left Peter alone for years. Jonah, though… after it was all said and done, Peter checked in on him every once in a while. Heard he'd moved in with his son and had gotten in touch with the old Bugle staff. He offered to put Peter in touch with them. Peter had thought about declining. Said he would think about it instead.

He didn't tell Junior any of that, though. "Alien," was all he said.

Junior looked at him as if he'd said something silly. " _A-Aliens?_ Like the movie?"

"Alien, just the one. The rest came later and went before," Peter said, sighing and shaking his head. "Less like Alien, more like The Thing. You ever run into one… just the one," he clarified, scratching at his stubble, "talk things out first. Save yourself decades worth of headaches."

Junior noted the tiredness in his own voice and decided to take it to heart. "…Okay. …Prom?"

Peter weighed the pros and cons of spilling the lackluster trends of his life. He figured why not, and had a feeling that was the wrong thing to figure. "I didn't go. Gang shootout."

"What about college?"

"Stopped going."

" _Friends_?"

"Disappointing ending to a mediocre series." Junior stared at him with the small, sharp eyes that belonged to the second suit Peter had ever tailored. Peter grunted. "One or two, or three in college. Drug addiction. Army. Married to an alien and had a kid."

Junior gave him a look crossed between horrified and disbelieving. Funny thing was, when he'd found out Johnny Storm had gotten married to an alien, Peter was the only one that hadn't been surprised. He'd been invited as the best man, but hadn't gone. Another thing Junior didn't need to know.

"Ugh…" Junior rubbed at his eyes, sounding like he had a headache. "Alright, let's go with something easy. How about body-hair? When can I look forward to getting all of  _that?"_

"With my luck, come twenty-five you'll have more than you know what to do with. It won't go away."

"Your luck?" Junior scoffed, but Peter knew where he was coming from. "Thanks so much. Big help. Really."

"Don't mention it."

That had been his self-help moment for the day. It left Junior less than inclined to make any more conversation with himself, which was what he was going for. Best case scenario, he'd take it all to heart so much he'd never want to end up like Peter himself. Second best, he'd be forever disinclined to talking to himself. Worst, he'd be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Two out of three wasn't bad.

He tuned into the conversation Mayday and Ashley were having and almost felt like smiling at the surrealism of it. He didn't, but he did keep his eyes on them all the same. "His  _name_  is Benjy," Mayday said with crossed arms. "Benjamin Richard Parker. That's your Uncle – you should know his name."

Ashley huffed. "Sorry golden-girl, not my Uncle," she said, pointing an accusatory finger at Peter. "That his kid? No? Then he's not my Uncle."

Peter groaned tiredly. "I'm not your grandfather."

"Not with that attitude you're not."

Mayday's lips quirked up into a smile. "That… doesn't make any sense. If he's your grandfather, then… what?" she said, a lightness to her tone that hadn't been there the day before, or the week before that, and on. Peter was glad to see her like this – holding a conversation, connecting, making a… friend, if that was what connecting with your inter-dimensional relative was called.

Gave him a sort of not-fatherly pride that he immediately pushed away when he remembered it'd only came to pass after he filled up her belly with his sperm.

"Mom always said you were the smartest of you three. Not so smart," Ashley said, taking that as a victory with her hands on her hips. She nodded over to Peter. " _Someone_ didn't have a son where I'm from. Just daughters. You got a sister named April?" Peter knew the signs of a loaded question when he saw one. Mayday made a face that Ashley apparently could understand. "Oh. Dead?"

"…"

"Well, at least you're alive. One out of three ain't bad, I guess."

Mayday sighed. A bit too much like him, Peter thought. "Your optimism is astounding."

"Optimism's a bitch and so am I," Ashley said. "We gonna get this show on the road or am I going to have to tell Grandpa Flyboy that you don't want to come visit the rest of the fish in the barrel?"

Mayday gave him a look as if he had some say in it. He didn't, and patiently stared back, waiting. "Alright," she said, nodding to herself. "Not staying, though."

"So? Why would you? It's like the three little piggies over there," Ashley scoffed. "You two got the right idea – break away from the herd and make a smaller target for yourselves."

"We have the Power Cosmic," Junior said, although weakly. "We'll be fine."

"We had a  _Hulk_ , too, and look what that got us," Ashley said. "A whole lotta  _dick._ Like I said, fish in a barrel. Happened on my world with the villains and if things don't change, it'll happen there, too."

There was a heavy silence after that. That was fine, Peter had heard and talked enough. He shook his head and stood up. "Let's go," he said.

Mayday gave him a hopeful look. "You're coming?"

" _You're_ going," Peter said sharply, surprising her. That was when his head throbbed, and Junior started to groan.

"Agh… Anyone feeling a sudden onset migraine, right now? No? Okay…" He shook his head. "Knew I should have taken pointers from Time Cop…"

Peter grimaced and ushered them all to the edge of the roof, away from the door. "Try not to announce yourselves to the neighborhood and hurry up and get… whatever you used to get here, started up." He looked at Mayday. "I'll be right back," he said, and made a bee-line for the door.

"Da-"

"Stay," he said, interrupting her before she could say the magic word. She moved to toward him and he held a hand up. "Ground rules, 'Day. I'll be back. Don't wait up for my sake, say hi to your brother for me. And Remember what I said about aliens."

Once again, Peter shut the door behind him.

* * *

He hadn't thought to ask about it and Mayday hadn't told him, but Union Jack had. The Inheritors, Jack had called them, Peter could expect them with his spider-sense. Drumbeats in your head and a feeling of dread, sometimes. Other times just a headache.

He'd given some spiel about it being because the spider-sense was connected to something or other, that maybe it was its potential precognition coming about, warning of the future. Or maybe something naturalistic about it all, a force or act of nature – Inheritors were spider-people's natural predator elicited a fight or flight response in them.

Peter didn't know, and didn't much care. As far as he was concerned they were just another group of Saturday morning cartoon villains that wanted him dead. And now he had a name for them that still didn't hold a candle to the Jackson Five or the Fantastic Four.

His spider-sense was going off like an air raid siren. One of them was in his building.

Peter was walking down the stairs as he saw him. The… he almost called him 'Thing', but that would have been insulting to Ben Grimm. He was pushing close to seven feet and had to stoop just to get into the building before took a single step to the receptionist's cubicle.

The cubicle was just a fancy area they used to store the janitor and emergency equipment on the first floor. It had been Peter's suggestion. The man loomed over it like a shadow no one wanted to see in a dark alley. A redwood trunk of a man that looked more like a chromosome missing obeliskthat had gone to Victorian-era London to buy clothes and attend finishing school.

And he was asking politely, "Excuse me. Where might I find Peter Parker?"

Looking at him made Peter's head hurt. His eyes too, but he'd seen uglier in his time. "Right here," he said, stepping off the stair case. "What do you want?"

The man's eyes flicked to him with the unfeelingness of a reptile. He blinked, and Peter saw a lizard's eyes, yellow and black slitted, but then it was gone. In stepped a just as reptilian smile, stretched onto a face that wasn't made for it and followed by a voice that matched none of those things. "Ah, there you are," he said, his voice smooth, cultured, but deep. "I was worried finding you would be difficult."

The person at the desk was a kid around Mayday's age that Peter had been giving tidbits to about the electricity in the building for years. He looked worriedly over to Peter. "Mr. Parker?"

Peter walked over to the desk and put a ten-dollar bill on the counter, picked up a pen and a piece of paper, wrote down a shopping list, and handed them to the kid. "Do me a favor: go down to the store and pick these up for me. Gonna be too busy to do it myself today. Can you do that?"

The kid took the tone of his voice, and the presence of the man, as an order enough and made himself scarce. He didn't even shut the door.

"I have to say, I'm impressed," the man said from behind Peter. His spider-sense was telling him to run, or fight, but Peter ignored it. Had to keep him busy. The man leaned in to inspect him. "Young or old… you never try to run."

"Old as I am, guess I'm too tired to," Peter returned.

The man let out a deep laugh that would have put him on edge if his life hadn't been full of things and people trying to kill him. Even then, it was a conscious effort not to sock him in the face and run. "Oh, modesty. You're always so,  _so_  modest. And protective. I like that about you," he said, shaking a large finger at him. "Very admirable. As a matter of fact, there was… one other-  _you_ , of course, who was much the same. He called himself an old man as well, and met me at his door… just like this, really. Deja-vu is an odd thing."

Peter breathed in, and out, calmly. This was the one that had gone and ruined Happy-Peter's picket fence fantasy. He flexed his hands. "Is that right?"

The man's face fell and he clasped his hands. A sign of respect undercut by the smirk he had as he watched Peter work his knuckles. "It is, unfortunately. You see, I and my family need to… survive. And he wanted  _his_ family to do the same. It's all very unfortunate, very… animalistic, you might say. But family is family." He tapped his lips. "For what it's worth, after all of the unpleasantness I  _did_ let your children go.  _I_  don't like the young ones, you see. I always preferred… maturity. It tastes better."

"You don't say."

"I do. But, _de gustibus non est disputandum._ "

The man smiled and leaned in fully, staring into Peter's eyes, his own reptilian ones gleaming like a lizard on the hunt, his slick black hair falling shoulder length off his broad head. "My eldest sister is much the opposite. While I practice a more… catch and release philosophy, she prefers the young ones. And one  _has_  to look out for family. You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you?"

He was trying to unsettle him. That was nice, but it had nothing on looking his extra-terrestrial ex in the face. Peter ignored him and quietly made his way to the fire alarm. "Do you mind?"

The man's smile was too wide for a human face. "Oh, not at all! I have no interest in getting others involved in this, you see. Well, not unless I'm feeling hungry. But I'm… mostly sated. I had quite a large meal, recently."

Peter looked him up and down. "And it shows," he said, raising an eyebrow. The man let out another laugh as Peter pulled the alarm. Peter crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as the sounds of doors opening came, and people began to flee the building.

The man stood beside him as Peter's neighbors began to stream into the street. He stuck out his hand. "I am Daemos," he said.

Peter shook it, despite every fiber of his being telling him to feed the guy his own teeth. "Parker."

"You are a  _very_ interesting man, Mr. Parker. More so than any other I've met, at the least," Daemos said, knowingly. His expression changed into something approaching solemnity. "And I do hope you realize… this is nothing personal."

Peter helped an old man – older than him, at least – leave the building. His name was Ben and since the start of the year, every other weekend he'd go on a fishing trip with his younger brother, Richard. They'd invited Peter a few times, but he always politely declined. Peter shut the door after him, and took a deep breath. "Is that right?"

"Indubitably so," Daemos said.

"Well, isn't that a good change of pace…"

He turned to face him, and Daemos pointed. At him, at the people outside who were wondering why Mr. Parker, de facto repairman of their building, wasn't coming out. "Aren't you going to… hm, get dressed?" he asked, a little amused. "You  _do_ spend your free time in a certain way, don't you?"

Peter thought about it. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mask, ignoring the other thing in there. He looked at it for a moment. It smelled like Mayday. "Thanks."

"Of course, Mr. Parker. Of course." Daemos clapped his hands. The sound was like bricks made out of meat hitting each other. " _Well,_  let's get started then, shall we?"

"Sure thing, big guy," Peter said, and in broad daylight and view of his neighbors, he put on his mask. Didn't feel so amazing about it, but he didn't need to. Was going to make sure Mayday and the rest got out of here safely.

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Looked like he was going to work today, after all…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might take a break and work on other things after this. Also, Reign and Spider-Verse were dumb, you guys. Really, really dumb.

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure this is one of the only two Peter/Mayday fics ever.


End file.
